


The Bastard Truth - Part Three

by nairmakgren



Series: The Bastard Truth [3]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Cruelty, Epic Battles, F/M, Long Night, Loss, Near Death Experiences, Obsession, R plus L equals J, Tent Sex, Undead, White Walkers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-20
Updated: 2016-11-27
Packaged: 2018-08-31 23:58:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 38,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8598988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nairmakgren/pseuds/nairmakgren
Summary: The Long Night has come. And the dead come with it.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> PART THREE! I want to thank all of you for your love and support thus far. We're moving right along in terms of delivering high quality awesome story for you guys because I love yall.

As the section of the Wall came crashing down around them, the black brothers and Vale soldiers who had survived – mainly by virtue of being inside Castle Black proper – were caught completely unawares as the horde of dead crashed through the breach, setting upon them within moments. The last thing most of them did before they were slaughtered by the uncountable numbers of wights was to stare in utter shock and disbelief towards where the Wall used to be.

The horde poured out into the grounds of Caste Black, swarming over the buildings and battlements within moments of their arrival. Panicked Vale knights were knocked off their horses and butchered as they tried to escape while those who tried to form ranks and fight back were simply battered aside and killed by the overwhelming force of an endless tide crashing against their defenses. Even poor grumpy Three-Finger Hobb was taken – the doors to the mess hall thrown open and the cook set upon by wights. He managed to kill a few, striking them down with his oversized cleaver – but in the end the sheer number of swords, axes, maces and other weapons pushing at him overwhelmed the man's defenses.

The gate separating Castle Black from the outside world was battered down into splinters within minutes as the dead swarmed out into the Gift, where a good sized Free Folk settlement had been located. It was taken within moments, the swarm murdering and destroying ceaselessly as it went. What was left of the castle, the proud bastion of the Night's Watch for thousands of years was a series of ruined buildings and splinters, the ramparts running red with blood from the crows and the Vale men.

* * *

A near-freezing blizzard had also begun in the ruins of the Castle, the snow and sleet rapidly piling up as the Night King walked through the wreckage. The last of its soldiers had rushed through the gates into the rest of the land, removing the disease called men as they went. Its army would not go far unless it so commanded – for now it was content to allow the surrounding areas to be cleansed. As it walked to the top of one of the castle walls overlooking the now ruined courtyard it raised its arms to the sky – and using the ancient magics that its creators had long ago given to it – embedded the dead men with the power of the Others, their eyes roaring to life with the blue ice that marked them as servitors.

It watched as the new soldiers rushed forward to join the rest of the host. It felt no satisfaction or joy from its task – no fear or regret, either. It felt nothing besides the accomplishment of its directives. The Wall was an old foe to the mission of the Others – and it was now meaningless.

The rest of its kind had already advanced ahead with the host to ensure the continuation of the preserving storms. The attack on the Wall had resulted in many lost soldiers but the numbers were of no consequence to it. As long as it survived there would be no end to the army – or creatures to slaughter to add to its wake.

Massive ice spiders stomped through the ruins as they surged forward to join their smaller brethren already skittering over the walls. It was keenly aware of the dragons circling overhead yet they were of no threat to it or its fellow Others.

The Jon Snow had been far more formidable and brave then any man it had ever seen. Even as the bone shattering cold generated by the Others bit into his skin the Jon Snow endured, even daring to challenge the Night King to single combat. But it was not swayed with long-abandoned concepts of honor or glory.

Yet it had allowed the Jon Snow to live – because after so many thousands of years it was perhaps the first and only mortal that had dared to challenge it and live. No one had slain an Other since the first purge's failure – and that was only accomplished through the use of their now extinct creators.

Yet this one was different. The Night King wanted the Jon Snow to live so that it could see the kingdoms of men fall. It wanted him to live so he could see the armies of the dead grow even larger. It wanted him to live so that he would despair at the fate of the disease called men when all was said and done.

And just as easily after the purge would be finished and Westeros covered in eternal winter, preserving and protecting the land as it was commanded so the saga of the Others would end. It would order their return to the Land of Always Winter – the place of its origins – and they would sleep, once more.

Forever.

* * *

It took every ounce of strength within his body for Lyn Corbray to get away from the massacre at the Wall, his horse almost manic with fright as his rider smashed boots into its hide and yanked the reigns so hard that it felt he'd pull the horse's jaw off.

As his fellow knights fought and died beside him – or rather were massacred beside him – Lyn had known he could not hope to survive this fight and so he ran, galloping as hard as he could away from the chaos. He knew that Lord Royce was among the dead – the man having been atop the Wall when it collapsed – and there was no way to tell who was going to be in charge of the rest of the host.

So it was all he could do to flee, hoping beyond hope that he could find a settlement or a hold-fast within a respectable distance of the Wall. His armour was bloodied and dented from the various wights trying to pull him from his horse during the battle but he had remained unharmed. At least in terms of physically. Mentally he was barely sane, trying to hold together his collapsing mind with thoughts of home – thoughts of Heart's Home. Of even his elder brother Lionel, left behind in the Vale to guard the Bloody Gate.

Lady Forlorn hung at his side, the Valyrian Steel useless against the ever swarming onslaught of dead. It had been all but forgotten in the changing tide of the fight – one moment he saw dragons roasting the armies of the Others and the next the Wall was coming down and he was running for his life. He'd seen a few other Vale men riding away from the onslaught but he had no way of knowing if anyone else had lived. Nor did he rightfully care – all he was concerned with at this moment was his own skin.

His whole body was freezing cold as he urged his horse faster, the joints of his armour feeling as though it was melded to his skin. But his horse had enough, and collapsed to the ground, dead before Lyn fell off. As he staggered from the fall Lyn struggled to continue, even resorting to using his beloved Lady Forlorn as a walking stick of sorts to keep his tired body from suffering the fate of his horse.

As he stumbled through the blizzard barely able to see his own hand in front of him Lyn felt tired. So very tired – the cold was seeping into his bones and was trying to lull him into eternal rest. It hurt to breathe, the air so cold it almost choked as he gasped in scant mouthfuls. His eyes grew heavy as he willed himself to keep them open as he pushed forward, desperately searching for any sign of life in the freezing waste.

Finally his body failed him and he collapsed to his knees, wheezing despondently. It was then that he saw the screaming wight charging at him, sword in hand. It ran into his kneeling form and straddled his waist as Lyn tried feebly to fight it off. Losing his helmet in the struggle he was far too weak to put up any serious resistance. Before long, he felt the brittle sword slice into his throat and his lifeblood begin to ebb from his neck onto the snow.

The last thing Lyn Corbray saw as the life left his body was thousands more of the horde charging past him.

* * *

From the highest wall of the Last Hearth Dim Dalba and Harmond Umber watched the scenes below. Massive numbers of dead – men and beast alike – screaming and screeching as they swarmed the land in front of the castle, screaming and screeching and roaring all the while. The numbers were endless, the sheer amount of them coming together as though a sea of wights.

Thankfully Dim had ordered the Free Folk to be let inside the castle – with Harmond's approval – to shelter them from the incoming army. In his role as castellan of the Last Hearth it was his job to work with the Umber lord to over see the defence of the ancient stronghold. Thankfully for Dim, Harmond's young age made him much easier to work with then some of the greybeard advisers he had. _Fucking kneelers,_ he cursed, _even now they want to bitch and moan about the Free Folk._

Harmond looked up towards Dim's weathered face. “That's a lot of them, Dim.” he whispered, his voice trembling ever so slightly with a hint of fear. “Just like King Jon said.”

Dim nodded, biting down on his lower lip. “Aye, little lord. But don't you worry – the Free Folk and your men'll keep the castle safe. I promise.” He grinned, ruffling the boy's hair.

Harmond laughed and shoved the man's hand away. “I'm the lord here! You can't do that!” he snickered, nudging him playfully in the leg. _The boy is only seven but he shows more wisdom and courage then the other fucks three times his age._

“Hah! Oh, reminds me, little lord,” Dim teased, “That chain wearing fellow sent a bird off to Winterfell to let 'em know what's going on.”

“Maester. That's called a mae-ster. My father taught me that one before he left.” the boy shrugged, idly adjusting his tunic and chains. Around the pair archers both Free Folk and Umber alike began to set up their arrows and braziers. Dim had to laugh – the two sides were once bitter enemies, even as recently as the battle at Winterfell – but now they were the best of friends.

It was thanks in large part to Harmond, Dim knew. The boy had encouraged every man and woman of the Umber lands to get to know the Free Folk – to see how they were just like them, courageous and strong. It had helped things greatly.

“You nervous, Dim?” Harmond asked, his voice still trembling slightly.

“Fear's a part of being human, little lord.” he smiled, nodding down at the horde. “The North's never seen this before. Even though I have it's still hard to believe sometimes. Gotta pinch myself to make sure I'm not asleep.”

“I'm just happy we got all the people inside before they showed up,” Harmond grinned. “My grandfather always said that a liege lord has a duty to protect the people who serve under him. No matter how tough it may be.” The boy spoke highly of his grandfather, someone Dim knew as “Greatjon” - he was apparently long dead but had been a positive impact in Harmond's life.

“We've not got a lot of men but we've got plenty of arrows.” Dim admitted with a sigh. Most of the Umber fighting men had went and died with Harmond's father “Smalljon” at the battle of Winterfell.

 _Who the fuck names their son Smalljon?_ “Don't worry, Dim. Every man here, free folk or Umber are worth a hundred of these dead things!” Harmond beamed.

Dim kept watch over the horizon, his face remaining stoic as the wights grew even more fearsome – many were skeletal in nature, with almost no skin at all remaining. Others were great beasts as Dim saw bears, wolves, shadow-cats and even pale white spiders all roaring and howling within the tightly packed horde at the gates.

They smashed hard on the iron reinforced entrance to the Last Hearth but Dim was confident it would hold. The Others had never faced gates of iron and steel before – and Harmond had told him the Hearth's gates were triple reinforced – _whatever the fuck that means._

“Lord Harmond,” came a thick voice from his right. Dim watched as the black-robed maester shuffled up to the boy and put a hand on his shoulder. “We must get inside lest one of these...monsters...decide to strike at you directly. Who knows what kind of -”

“They can't use bows, moron.” Dim interrupted, glaring disapprovingly at the man. He didn't like these “maesters” - sure, they were smart and knew how to treat wounds but they looked down on the Free Folk worse then the regular soldiers and people did. “They can barely hold their weapons straight. The boy's safe here.”

“Dim is right, Maester.” Harmond nodded, placing a hand on the stone wall, “the Hearth has held against many enemies before. Against the wildlings, the Boltons, and it will hold against the Others!”

“I do not discount your...erm, castellan's words my lord, but your place is in the great hall where your father and grandfather once sat.” the man gave a sidelong glance of dismay towards Dim.

“I am the lord of House Umber, maester. I am happy to hear your advice but I will decide when to sit in the hall.” A smile crept up Dim's face as he watched the robe shuffle away, chastised. He couldn't help but think of Harmond as a son – in an odd sense, given that both of Dim's sons were dead; his eldest at Hardhome and his youngest during the battle at Winterfell.

“You're more like us then you care to admit, little lord.” he snickered.

“What can I say, Dim? A lord must know when to be strong and trust his own brain.”

One of Dim's men ran up to him and grinned. “We've found some pitch and some empty barrels. We can drop it on the shits at the gate and keep 'em away!” he beamed, rubbing his hands together in excitement.

“Do it!” he barked as he looked to Harmond, who smiled approvingly towards him.

“Hey Dim, let's go to the practice yard. I feel like beating you again!” the boy laughed as he headed down the battlements.

“That's what you think!”

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon is rescued in the nick of time. Winterfell gets news from Last Hearth.

Jon's body was practically frozen solid – his breathing shallow and hoarse – when Daenerys landed with Drogon to pick him up. A good size pool of blood had leaked out of his mouth and rested on the snow beside him. She knelt next to him and began to drag him towards the dragon, who kept watch for any more wights. The horde had quickly forced its way through the breach and was likely massacring the Vale soldiers and Nights Watch brothers that had survived the collapse.

As she slung him over Drogon's back just behind her, she looked back to the collapsed structure with fear. _Can we really stop this? Is there a way?_ Her mind swam with fear – two dragons had been unable to stop the Others, who had the power to simply ignore dragon fire in some way. Her pondering was broken as Jon shivered violently, his limbs jerking in every which way as he whimpered ever so lightly.

“Hang on, King Snow...I'll get you to safety,” she whispered to him and clambered back ontop of Drogon. As he flew into the air Daenerys saw the battlefield below – a scorched wasteland of fire and debris – and shook her head. This was going to require everything she possibly had if there was going to be any hope of survival – not just for her, but for Westeros as a whole.

Flying over the Wall – or what was left of it – at Castle Black Daenerys watched the ocean of wights surging through the North. They were like a plague – an endless army of insects from the sky but veritable monsters from below – and they were now free to spread all over the region.

Daenerys kept a hand on Jon, his jerking and seizing making her balancing difficult. None the less from behind him she had a better chance of getting him to Winterfell safely. _Stay with me, Jon,_ she told herself. _I will save you._

_Twenty thousand men, an eight thousand year old Wall, two dragons and Valyrian Steel couldn't stop them. What will?_ As Drogon soared over the hills and forests the snows – almost blinding in their intensity at the remains of Castle Black – had stopped, giving her and Jon a respite from the cold. She held him close, trying to rub his frozen arms to give him some body heat. Her legs wrapped tight around her dragon's neck as she used her thighs to remain seated for the both of them.

Daenerys remembered Jon's words – a northern host of twenty thousand was on its way to the Wall. She knew that she had to stop them from arriving. “Down, Drogon!” she shouted as the beast glided ever so slowly down, the ground much more visible from where he sat then before.

* * *

Over the horizon she spied a massive set of cooking fires, the smoke wafting into the air in thickening clouds. The northern host, she grinned. She urged Drogon to the ground just outside of the camp – which had thousands of tents and fires and banners all around it – and quickly clambered off as he landed, while dozens of horrified and astonished northmen rushed to gawk at him.

Roaring loudly the soldiers retreated but Daenerys put a stop to it with a gentle hand laid on his head. “Easy, Drogon. They are friends,” she soothed as the beast lolled its head into the ground. High above she heard the roaring of Rhaegal and realized he'd followed them – _he must sense Jon is in danger_ , she knew almost immediately.

“I must speak to your commanders at once! And get as many furs as you can spare – your King is in danger of dying!” she hollered, drawing the convulsing Jon gently down from Drogon's back. The soldiers looked at one another and then rushed forward to take him, quickly supporting him as they rushed him into the camp.

“I'm Lord Mazin, one of the commanders here.” The man before her was young with short blonde hair – he appeared to be even younger then Jon was, with his face a mixture of fright and concern. “We're just on the way to the Wall – another few days and we should be there. What's happened..?”

She told the man of the collapse at Castle Black – of how the dead were now pouring into the North unhindered and how Jon was on the brink of death from attempting to stop the Night King. “I need to return to Winterfell with King Snow as soon as I can.”

Mazin let out an audible sigh as a handful of other men – all garbed in various fine armors – rushed up. _The other commanders,_ Daenerys mused. The young lord's face fell, his mouth agape. “Then...all is lost.” he repeated, the color draining from his already frozen cheeks.

“No, it is not.” she growled, eyes flaring to life with the dragon's blood behind them, “We have suffered a defeat here, yes. But you must hold the line. Begin drawing up siege lines and fortifications. I will ride for Winterfell and bring Lady Stark the news. With the King.”

“You have no right to take the -” one of the men protested. One look from the Queen's angry eyes silenced him.

“I have every right to bring him to a proper healer!” she retorted, glaring over each of the commanders.

“The Lady's right,” Lord Mazin decreed, nodding. “Give us some time to warm him. Once he's bundled up tight we'll get him set up on your dragon and you can get him to Maester Wolkan at Winterfell. In the mean time – you heard her, get to digging those trenches you sorry fuckers!” he shouted, waving his arms and bellowing as he walked into the camp.

A guard lead Daenerys to the tent where Jon was kept, hidden under a massive pile of furs. He was still deathly cold as she touched his cheek but his limbs felt slightly warmer. His body continued to tremble as his wheezy breaths grew slightly stronger.

She grabbed a chair and pulled it up to sit next to him, her eyes studying his face ever so intently. “Stay alive, Jon Snow.” she commanded, smiling down at him. “The North, your people – they need you. Rhaegal needs you.”

_I need you._

As she watched him she noticed his mouth move ever so slightly – as though he were trying to form words. “Are you trying to say something, Jon? Come back.” she whispered, getting off the chair and onto her knees, leaning forward so her face was almost against his.

“S....” he moaned, his teeth chattering so hard that she thought he'd break them. _Was that it?_

She placed her hands on his cheeks, smiling as she felt a slight warmth to them. “Come on, Jon....talk to me. I'm here..” she whispered, rubbing her hands to try and warm him further.

“sa....s...s...” he was able to whisper, his voice extremely hoarse like his breathing.

_You can't die, damn it! You have the blood of the First Men! Fight, Jon Snow. Fight!_ Daenerys's mind raced with worry and fear for him. If he were to die, it would mean the end of the North – the various Houses would destroy one another fighting over succession.

The dragon in the back of her mind whispered to her that it would ensure she would secure the region as hers, just as she would have the rest of Westeros – but she knew that it would never follow a Targaryen. _They follow him because they love him._

“Sansa...” he was able to say this time, the word followed by a groan of intense pain. _He wants to be with his sisters and brother,_ Daenerys realized.

“You want to go home, Jon? Don't you? I will get you there. I promised you once and I meant it.” she nodded, rising to her feet and starting to drag him out of the tent, furs and all.

* * *

Sansa stood on the battlements, her hands shaking as she laid them on the stone. Word had come from the Last Hearth – the Wall has fallen. The Others are here. The Long Night has come to the North.

The horizon was barely visible any longer, an eternal blizzard of ice and snow was all that awaited them. Sansa's gaze went to her hands as fresh tears fell from her eyes and onto her gloves. Her heart was shattered – and she felt as though whatever happiness, whatever joy she had found in the last few months had been ripped away once more.

At her side was Ser Davos, a constant companion of sympathy and compassion. His face was troubled as well – and she spied dried tear streaks upon his cheeks as well. “We...we have to prepare, My Lady,” he noted, his voice soft and wavering. “Begin sending the smallfolk south towards the Neck. If we can get them to the Reeds we should be able to -”

She nodded idly. Her mind was numb – it almost was unable to process what had happened. If the Wall had fallen it meant that Jon had failed – and if he failed it meant that he was gone. The Knights of the Vale, the Nights Watch – it was all destroyed. “Hope has gone out of the North, Ser Davos...” she sighed, her voice cracking with tears.

“Don't say that, my lady..” the man softly patted her shoulder, his hand firm but gentle. “The people look to you now as it is. They will continue to look to you to see them through all of this as best as you – as best as we – can.”

“I'm not Jon...I can't beat this. I can't fight,” she wept, her legs failing her as she started to fall, but felt Davos's hands grasp her by the small of her back as he braced her against him.

“We need to get you inside, right now.” he whispered as he wrapped an arm around her shoulder and began to guide her down the steps towards the keep. But Sansa did not hear any more of his encouraging words – her mind was focused on Jon.

_Without him, I am nothing. I...I do not belong here._ She knew she had failed – somehow. Perhaps she had not prayed enough? Perhaps she had not loved him enough? Perhaps whatever gods did exist in their infinite cruelties had decided to take yet one more family member – and someone she loved – away from her? Was her father not enough? Was her mother? Robb? Rickon?

_Why did you have to take my husband too?_

* * *

Arya and Bran waited for Sansa and Davos inside her chambers, their faces wracked with concern.

“What happened? Is she alright?” Arya rushed forward to grasp Sansa by the waist as both of them lead her into her bed. Her face remained slack and almost blank as she was sat down, her body slumping forward.

“She collapsed on the battlements,” Davos sighed, hoisting her legs up and helping to lay her down. “I'll go get Maester Wolkan. You two, well three – he nodded to Meera – help her try to relax.” Within moments of his speaking Davos flew out of the room.

Meera pushed Bran over to the bed where Arya knelt beside her sister. “Come on, Sans. Please come back..” she pleaded, grasping her hand so tight that Bran thought she'd pull it off.

“Arya, give her some room..” he offered but Meera shushed him by hitting him gently on the shoulder. “What?” he protested, rubbing the spot she'd smacked.

“The Wall's collapsed, the King might be dead and the North with it and you're telling her to give her room?!” Meera sighed, her voice trembling. Bran reached up with his hand and grasped hers as tight as he could manage.

“I know, Meera. But I...I just know Jon will be alright.” he smiled, trying to reassure her – and himself too. Bran worried for Jon as much as Arya did, but he had a feeling; perhaps it was nothing, perhaps simply blind hope – that he was alive and still fighting.

Sansa continued to remain silent even as Arya wrapped her arms around her, sobbing into her neck as she hugged tight. “Please, Sans. We need you – the north needs you. I'm sorry for what I said, what I believed about that fucking asshole Baelish...just please, come back. Jon's alright, I know he is...”

Ghost had entered the room by this time, the wolf hopping onto the bed and licking Sansa's free hand gently. Arya continued to sob into Sansa's shoulder, trying to get her to speak – or do something, anything at all.

* * *

 

It wasn't long before Davos returned with Maester Wolkan in tow, the man quickly shuffling his way to the beside. “Lady Arya,” he whispered softly, gently patting the girl on the shoulder, “I need to examine Lady Sansa – I know this is hard, but please. It will only take a moment.”

Arya glared at him and nodded, wiping the tears away from her eyes as she hopped off the bed, going to stand over beside Bran and Meera.

Wolkan quickly examined her, his hands moving swiftly and softly to her face, her head and her neck. “She appears to be in a catatonic state.” Noting the confusion on everyone's faces he explained, “This means that she is unable to respond to those trying to get her to speak or act. It is a form of shock brought on by stress...and I know the raven from the Last Hearth would most assuredly qualify.”

The man quickly procured a small green vial and set it on the night table. “This is Shade-song. It mostly is used for muscle aches and other physical maladies, but a small drop in water once a day should help her mind to return to a normal state within three or so days.”

“Thank you, Maester.” Bran nodded to the man with a small smile. “If you don't mind, I think we should need some privacy.”

“Of course, my lord. I will check on her when you are finished then?” After receiving nods of ascent from those present he shuffled out of the room.

Davos turned to leave – but collided with Petyr Baelish as he did so, both men stumbling backwards with muffled grunts.

“Apologies, Ser Davos – but I wanted to check on Sansa. I know she was taken -” the man began, his face contorted into one of concern. _That, or a good imitation of concern._

“GET OUT!” shouted Arya as she ran towards him, pushing him so hard that he fell to the floor on his arse. “I SAID GET OUT!” she screamed towards the man, who appeared too stunned to speak. He opened and closed his mouth several times as Davos helped him up.

“Let's give them some time, my lord...emotions are high right now,” he offered, leading the man to the door.

“Of course, I understand...” Baelish offered, his face still an expression of puzzlement.

* * *

Sansa could hear nothing as she lay in the bed, her mind a whirlwind of fear. The only thing she saw, thought or imagined was Jon – his smiling face, his arms around her – the feeling of him inside of her. Everything that made him special to her. She was his and he was hers. He would not leave her so easily. He was not like other people who lied constantly to her and about her - he kept his promises every time he left. From going south to Dragonstone to north to the Wall, she knew that Jon would come back to her. He was not the type to abandon not only his home but his wife.

_He couldn't. He promised._

_Come back to me Jon,_ she screamed inside herself. _I know you are out there. I know you can hear me. I love you, please...come back to me..._

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Euron attacks Highgarden. House Targaryen debates its next move.

The great castle of Highgarden – with its strong walls and towers, legions of loyal defenders and heavy defensive weapons – was not so great when faced with dragon-fire. It had been the seat of The Reach for thousands of years going back to the Age of Heroes when it was alleged to have been built by Garth Greenhand. Once ruled by the now-extinct House Gardener it now held allegiance to the rose of Tyrell.

Or, it had until Euron Greyjoy's arrival.

As he soared over the burning walls, his dragon belched out another gullet of flame down towards the siege weapons being assembled in one of the outer courtyards. The screams and agonizing howls of the defenders below signified that he'd scored a direct hit.

He had been tasked with bringing the Tyrells to heel in the name of the Queen. Having sided with the Targaryens against the Lannisters after the events at the Sept of Baelor Cersei was determined – almost hellishly so – to see them not only brought to heel but totally destroyed. To that end Euron had been sent with his newest pet and twenty thousand Lannister soldiers to besiege the castle and surrounding areas in her name.

They had already slaughtered up and down the region's villages and hold-fasts, putting the smallfolk and soldiers alike to the sword and torch. It was brutal but necessary – _if she wants blood she'll get it._ Half of the castle was in flames as thousand year old towers burned themselves into smoking husks while the other half was under siege by the Lannister army who smashed against its great gates.

Euron relished in the carnage he was causing. Highgarden was only the first of his targets as he knew – the Dornish city of Susnpear would be next on his list. Even with Ellaria Sand having been one of his first targets, Oberyn Martell's surviving daughters had taken control of the defenses and had arrayed their troops against The Reach – knowing full well what would befall the region.

Bringing Viserion to the ground, Euron yanked the great chain that had been placed inside the beast's mouth like a bridle – it was an effective way to both command it and keep it from disobeying. Great cuts and puncture marks covered the beast's lower body – the consequences of disobedience at it had learned the hard way.

Jumping down from its back Euron strolled casually through the ransacked and looted halls. The Tyrell forces had been taken completely by surprise and were falling back rapidly, with scouts even reporting many of their vanguard having retreated for the Stormlands at the first sign of the dragon.

“Have you found her?” he barked towards one of the Lannister captains. Cersei had instructed Euron to bring Olenna Tyrell, the current lady of the House to her alive and unharmed. She apparently had a bone to pick with the elderly matriarch – and she intended to pick it as long and as deep as possible.

_I'll have to sit in on that one_ , Euron mused to himself.

The man nodded and gestured for him to follow. As they rounded the passageways which were littered with debris and dead Tyrell and Lannister troops both Euron grimly chuckled to himself. The screams of the dead and dying and the chaos of battle were the only sounds that he was able to hear above that of his own footsteps.

The melody of death was one that he savored – it was the language of the ironborn, of the Old Way- of the Iron Islands itself. To reave and plunder was the main facet of life under his reign. As King he had ensured the Ironborn a place in the history books of the world – something that his brother or father could never have hoped to accomplish. Balon had done his best while Quellon had been a weak-willed fool unworthy of the lordship he possessed.

The captain lead him into a solar where an elderly woman sat at the window, staring out at the smoldering remains of the castle grounds. This must be her – the great Olenna herself. She was garbed in a gown of black with a face veil to go with it. She must still be mourning her dead family, Euron noted, oh well. Soon she'll be able to join them.

“So, you're the one that Cersei wants so badly, hm?” he sauntered over to one of the upturned chairs and righted it, sitting down with a relaxed and casual sigh. “The great Olenna Tyrell herself. Not so great now though, are we?”

The woman turned her head to face Euron and scoffed. “So, you're Cersei's newest lapdog? Nice dragon, I suppose. How'd you get it?” Her voice was full of sneering contempt – and Euron felt fury building in his heart.

“Perhaps you don't know who I am, woman,” Euron grumbled, banging a fist on the nearest table. “I have brought you and your house to ruin. House Tyrell is gone – as is your pathetic castle. Oldtown will be next, and I will scorch and burn every thing and every one associated with your House if need be.”

“Do you mean to bore me to death then?” she snapped, turning to face him fully, “Kill me and get it over with. I am not afraid of death, pirate lord.”

_Pirate lord?! Who does this bitch think she is?!_ “I am no pirate lord! I am Euron Greyjoy, King of the Iron Islands -” he snapped, hands balling into fists as he shot to his feet – only to have the woman silence him with a dismissive wave of her hand.

“Yes yes yes, I know who you are. The Crow's Eye himself, now the ever obedient servant of King's Landing. I do delight in the irony – here I thought you ironborn were supposed to be tough and independently minded.” She glared towards him, shaking her head. “The boasting of yours will only be your undoing, just like it is for all men. You know she'll turn on you too, I hope.”

“I serve no one but myself, woman.” Euron growled, his teeth grinding together. “And she is welcome to turn on me – but she won't do it while I have a dragon at my command. But you? Your House is in ruin. Your family, dead. Even your own bannermen are flocking to bend the knee even now.”

“Do they think they will find mercy from her? Don't make me laugh.” Olenna shrugged. “Well, get it over with, will you?! Pirate lord, pirate master, King, Emperor – whatever you want to be called, Crow's Eye.”

“Oh no, my dear lady.” Euron chuckled, heading for the exit, “The Queen wants you alive so she can finish you off herself, I presume. So, make yourself comfortable – say whatever prayers you want to say, I don't care. When she is done with you I am sure you will be begging for your gods to give you the gift of mercy.”

* * *

Tyrion Lannister's face was contorted with worry. “Are you sure about this?” he demanded, his glare focusing on the messenger. The young man nodded, his eyes wide with fear.

“Yes, m'lord Hand. Highgarden is burning even now as we speak.”

Around the Painted Table the assembled exchanged dark looks. It was Theon Greyjoy who spoke next, his trembling hands sitting atop the wood. “We...we can't do anything against Euron now that he has a dragon. To think, the rumors were true...”

“Rumors? You mean you knew of this horn and did not care to tell us?!” Tyrion fumed. The masons were still repairing Dragonstone from the last attack – it had cost many lives and resulted in the last of the Queen's brood being lost to her. With Drogon and Rhaegal still up North and now Viserion being enthralled by Euron Greyjoy, things were looking grim for House Targaryen.

“We thought it a myth at best!” snapped Yara, a hand shooting over one of her brothers in a protective gesture. “Euron's always embellished the truth. He lies as easy as the rest of us breathe!”

Varys sighed, nodding his head slowly. “With a fully grown dragon now at her beck and call your sister does seem to have a significant advantage over us. No amount of ground troops can hope to face off against such a beast.”

Tyrion placed his head in his hands, his mind wracked with fear. “First, the Queen has one of her dragons stolen. Then she flies off after it. Then, Euron's fleet attacks ours with wildfire and steals her last dragon. We're still repairing here in Dragonstone from his attack and we lost almost half our fleet during his theft.” _She'll have my head for this._

“The Unsullied are ready. We will go to the High Garden and hunt dragon.” Grey Worm nodded.

Missandei shook her head in the negative beside him. “It is too dangerous. No one – not even the Unsullied – can stand against the dragons. You saw how they were in Meereen against the Sons of the Harpy.” Her own voice betrayed her fear.

“We still haven't had word from her, yet. Why?” Tyrion sighed, hopping down from his chair. “Something must have happened up North...but what?”

“My little birds – as few as they are in the North – report a massive build up of soldiers, at least some twenty thousand strong. They also report both Jon Snow and the Queen heading to the Wall with the dragons.” Varys added, his face contorted into a small smile.

“The Wall? What's on the Wall that would make it such a target?” came Theon's reply.

“For a man raised in the North you are surprisingly ignorant of what is up there,” tittered Varys, earning a reproachful glare from both Greyjoys. “My apologies. I was merely making a joke. None the less –in the chaos of everything that has happened since the Queen's departure we have forgotten what made Jon Snow come to us in the first place.”

“The Others? Do you think that they've struck?” Tyrion ran a hand over his mouth. “If that's the case..”

“If that is the case then the Queen is in grave danger. More so, the realm is in grave danger.”

“The Unsullied stand ready to fight the Others. They will break before our steel, Tyrion Lannister.” Grey Worm added, his tone respectful and confident. “Same with their dead puppets.”

“The Others are immune to all weapons save dragonglass and Valyrian Steel,” Yara sighed, getting to her feet. “We need to sail for White Harbor at once and find the Queen. Take the city by force if we have to. If what Jon Snow said is true then we're all at risk.”

“We're at risk from my dear sister as well, lady Greyjoy – in case you missed the point of this meeting?” Tyrion snapped, shaking his head. “Varys, send your fastest bird to Winterfell. Tell them what has befallen Viserion – and ask them to pass on the message as soon as they can. I do believe Sansa may be amenable to its delivery.”

_How can I hope to lead with all of this happening under my watch?_ Tyrion slumped back into his chair as the room emptied. _Cersei, the Others, Jon Snow – it seems that even from beyond the grave Tywin Lannister is continuing to find ways to fuck with me. You'd love all this, dear Father. You must be laughing in your crypt at me right now._

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daenerys continues towards Winterfell. Inside the walls of the castle Petyr Baelish plots - but his plots are met with a certain roughness by a dog.

Daenerys held tightly to Jon as Drogon soared through the night sky. She'd left the northern encampment just a few hours ago and reasoned that they would arrive at Winterfell within a day. Jon was still clinging to his furs, his body still cold but thankfully no where near as cold as he was when she found him. His trembling arms were wrapped tightly around his chest and his breathing was laboured but stable.

_He will pull through_ , Daenerys smiled, _He is strong and determined. He will survive._ She smiled down at him, gently reaching out to squeeze his arm tightly through the furs. The northern forces had given him a verifiable mountain of them, many from their own stocks. Daenerys did not want the men to go without warmth of their own but they had insisted on it for their King's sake. She saw how the men were inspired by his mere presence – the fact he still lived giving the weary and frightened soldiers hope.

It was almost odd for her to feel such a connection to the young leader, especially given his blatant theiving of Rhaegal – the incident that had brought her up this way to begin with. But after everything that they had endured both on the battlefield and off she had a newfound respect for all he'd been able to do.

_A bastard boy, rising from nothing to become a loved and respected leader._ She saw a lot of parallels in his story to her own – minus the bastard status, but even so. _We've both gone from nothing to something very rapidly._ He cared for his people – so much so that he was willing to give up his own life many times over for them. Fighting side by side with the common soldiers on the battlefield even in the face of impossible odds.

And if the stories the “Free Folk”, as they called themselves were true he had returned from the dead. She wasn't so sure about that one, but so many people had told her of his death at the hands of his fellow Night's Watch brothers that she was inclined to believe them.

For safety reasons she'd tied him gently to Drogon with some borrowed rope before resuming their flight owing to his thrashing limbs. Even with the furs at times Jon's arms or legs would begin to kick and move wildly, coinciding with groans of pain coming from his mouth.

“We're almost there, Jon,” she whispered softly to him, “hang in there.” It was clear from her time at Winterfell that his siblings cared deeply for him – none more so then Sansa, the eldest daughter. That was likely why he'd whispered her name while in the tent. “You'll see Sansa and Arya and Bran soon..”

A nearby roar caused her to glance to the left as she saw Rhaegal enter position next to them. She noticed that one of his eyes was trained towards Jon's trembling form. _Have you bonded with him, Jon Snow? Is that why he won't leave your side?_

Dragon bonding was something that only the Valyrians of old – and her family – had done successfully. It was how they were able to train dragons and how they had come to conquer their foes and rule unopposed for so long.

_How then was it possible for a bastard boy, with no Valyrian heritage able to bond with one?_ Perhaps this was what made him seem so alluring to Daenerys...the fact he was defying almost all reason and bounds of reason for things she thought she knew.

She could no more separate the two then she could leave Drogon's side. Once bonded with a dragon that bond would be for life, with only death of either rider or beast being what released the remaining from it. _But he is my child_ , her mind coaxed. _He has no right to any of them..._

_I can't think about that now!_ Jon needed to live, dragons be damned. He was the only one who knew how to truly fight against the Others – and without him the whole of Westeros let alone the North was doomed to eternal darkness.

Drogon flew on, Daenerys continuing her gentle grip of his arm. “Live, Jon Snow...live.” she whispered once more to him, placing a gentle kiss upon his forehead. She chastised herself instantly for the gesture, but it brought her a measure of peace, feeling the warmth return to his brow.

_The Others be damned,_ she thought to herself, _we will stand against this darkness. And you will be our commander._

* * *

Petyr Baelish looked over the report from one of his informants, crumpling it up and throwing it to the ground angrily. A barely-concealed rage burned inside of him, wanting to break loose and wreak havoc upon the world. But he knew that any actions on his part would be damaging to his own standing – with both Sansa and the rest of the North.

He stormed through the castle, passing by the various servants and soldiers and wildlings without as much as a second glance. If the report was true then the entire Vale host had been lost at the Wall. All twenty thousand knights and their support. In the pit of his stomach as well as rage, Baelish felt a gnawing fear.

When the Others come the North will not be able to stop them, he mused. As he raced up a set of stairs leading to the east wing where his chambers were he returned to his thoughts of Sansa. She'd been almost catatonic since the report of the Wall's destruction had come in – with the probable loss of Jon Snow having been assured.

As he entered the chamber he sat down at his desk and began scrawling feverishly on the nearest parchment. He needed to find a way to get Sansa out of the North – when the Others came, there would be no place to hide...not even Winterfell itself was safe. _She will be safe with me_ , Petyr knew. He idly licked his lips as he continued to write, the contents of his letter a report for the Vale lords. They would not be happy with the loss of the entire host – and indeed some of them may want for his head – but they had to realize how serious this threat was.

Yet a sense of excitement overcame him as he finished his writing. This was a whole new element to the game – an element that even he was unfamiliar with. The Others had not been seen in eight thousand years, and were nothing but the stuff of myth. Who knew them at all, aside from the old tales told to young children as scary warnings?

The loss of Jon Snow had certainly been unfortunate – he was well loved by the bannermen – but Baelish saw his chance. A true chance to advance his plans with Sansa. _To make her the Queen she deserves to be. Yet she needs to recover first._ A catatonic Sansa was a useless one – and it pained his heart to see her so broken.

_She should be happy. She is triumphant through no machinations of her own! The last thing standing in her way is now gone._ As Eddard Stark's eldest surviving child, woman or not Sansa now was free to reign as Queen. _And I will be by your side for this Long Night to come – and when the day dawns we will sit atop the ashes of the world and reign supreme._

There was still the matter of the other siblings and Petyr knew that she would never abandon them. Understandable, but they still posed a threat to his plans. _We'll need to send them away, else keep them busy with other things..._

“Hello to you too, cunt.” a voice at the door interrupted Petyr's reverie. Turning to the entrance he found Sandor Clegane – the Hound himself – staring towards him, idly leaning against the open door.

“Ah, Ser Clegane. I had heard you were here with Lord Dondarrion,” he smiled, inclining his head respectfully. “It seems that the dog has a new leash.” he quipped.

“Save it, Baelish.” Sandor chuckled, stomping his way into the room. “This dog is his own master now. I'm done with all the games and killing of the south – I'm only here to do one thing and that's kill me some Others.”

_The great Clegane, gone noble? How droll_. “An admirable goal, but I fear with the loss of my eastern host the task may have become even more challenging.”

“Fuck your eastern host. I don't care if it's just Dondarrion and me against the whole army. They're the true threat here – not some twat on the Iron Throne in the south or some politics bullshit here in the north.” Sandor laughed as he unsheathed his newly forged steel. “Like it? Nice blade – perfect for sticking things like a skewer.” he waved the blade around, awfully close to Petyr's seat.

“Yes, very nice Clegane. Now put it away – I am not an Other.” _he thinks to frighten me with his knife. Almost laughable if he weren't so big_. “yet perhaps you should be off to join the fight if you are so eager? I hear they march on the Last Hearth even now.”

“Want to get rid of me so easily, eh? So you can keep trying to lie your way into the little bird's bed?”

Petyr narrowed his eyes, taken aback by the man's blunt statement. “You've been listening to nasty rumours again, I see. I am merely concerned for Sansa's recovery. She received some shocking news about her dear half-brother, after all. This makes her sadly vulnerable – and as Queen she must be strong in a time like this.”

“Whatever. I'm just here to tell you not to try visiting the little bird alone. I don't think anyone will like it. Not me, not those ugly shits guarding her – not anyone. Especially not the other wolf siblings.” the man grunted as he left the room, his heavy footsteps echoing in the hall.

Returning to his desk Petyr sighed. _You do not dictate how I can see my sweet Sansa. She is my pupil, my student – and will be my queen before long. And you, dear Sandor – will have no place in our new world._

* * *

Arya paced back and forth at Sansa's bedside, her feet beginning to ache. She ignored the pain and tried to take her mind off things – as best as could be done at a time like this. Sansa remained silent, simply spending all day staring up at the ceiling – not moving or talking and eating little. They'd been giving her the potion that Maester Wolkan recommended, once per day in water. Yet nothing had changed – she still was as silent and frozen as a statue.

Arya couldn't worry about Sansa too much – if she allowed her anxiety and fears to overwhelm her then it would be the end for them both. She had to stay strong for the family. For all of them – including Jon.

Her heart ached for her half-brother, who the North believed was dead at the Wall at the hands of the Others. But in her mind she wanted, desperately to believe Bran – that he was alive and on his way back to them. They had been away from each other for so long and suffered so much. Tormund had told her about Jon's actual death, stabbed in the heart by his own sworn brothers of the Night's Watch.

That made her angry. She wanted to find these men and kill them – but Tormund had explained that they were already dead, having been hanged by Jon when he was brought back by the Red Woman, who'd been exiled from the North for murder.

Now she still had to contend with Baelish – Jon's body had not even been found and he was already pecking at Winterfell like a vulture. She knew – as Bran did – that he was trying to manipulate Sansa and had spent the better part of the last few years doing so. _She'd become a master of plotting and politics,_ Arya reflected bitterly. Yet nothing could have prepared her for that man's onslaught, even now.

He had tried so hard to divide the Stark siblings, to turn Sansa against Jon for the crown. But she knew that her brother – no matter what Bran's revelations had brought, Jon was and would always be her brother – did not believe anything being spread about Sansa's ambitions. Thankfully Jon had been able to reconcile the girls – as Arya had immediately saw Sansa as trying to take Jon's crown, jealous of his being crowned as King in the North.

She felt ashamed that she believed the lies, at first. “I'm sorry, Sansa..” she whispered softly as she grasped her cold and clammy hand. “I'll never doubt you again. I promise..”

“I did it, little wolf.” Sandor gruffly barked as he entered the room, nodding to her. She'd asked him to find Baelish and have a little conversation with him – just to put him on edge about the situation. _If he tries anything, I will kill him. I don't care who knows it._ With the loss of the Vale's army there was no longer any trump card for him to hold over the family.

_The Hound may be an asshole, but he was a tough and brutal one._ She nodded at him in reply, gesturing to the door. “If he does anything else around you, kill him. No questions.”

That pleased him. “With pleasure,” he chuckled as he left the room, sword in hand.

_When you wake up Sansa, I'll have taken care of him for good. He'll never trouble you again, I promise to you. The wolf dies but the pack survives. We just have to believe._

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime Lannister completes his mission in the Riverlands.

The stronghold of the Twins loomed overhead as Jaime and his party rode up, the new lord having allowed the Lannister troops to quarter on the grounds for the duration of their stay. Jaime had assured his men – Ser Addam in particular – that they did not intend to stay long. They were here to pick up Edmure Tully and his family and officially deliver them into comfortable captivity as a hostage for the Lannisters. This would ensure the loyalty of the Riverlands to the Iron Throne.

Jaime brooded darkly as he dismounted his horse at the main drawbridge, looking out over where his troops had camped. _It was the same grounds as where the Stark forces had camped,_ he noted. _The same place where they were slaughtered by men they thought their brothers._

As the gates clanked open for him and his party – Ser Addam and Bronn plus two other guards – he immediately took note of several Frey soldiers watching him, their dirty and tattered garb evident of their new lord's continued spending of the large amounts of money that The Twins took in on himself. _Like grandfather, like grandson I suppose._

The troops escorted his party to the great hall where Lord Ryman Frey held court. The Lord of the Crossing – and officially Warden of the Riverlands, if such a title were to exist – was a great lout of a man, fat and balding. His small beady eyes immediately widened at Jaime's approach.

“Ser Jaime!” he bumbled, rising to his feet – as the other dozen or so Frey guests in the hall followed – and smiling jovially towards him, “I welcome you to The Twins on behalf of my family and loyal vassals of the Iron Throne, House Frey!”

Jaime nodded curtly, forcing himself to return the smile. “Lord Ryman. My thanks for the hospitality. As I told your man outside – and you in our raven – I do not intend to remain here long.” The state of the Freys in general disgusted him; they were all unwashed and utterly without any redeeming features.

_Perfect allies for dear Cersei_ , he snorted to himself. “Such a shame, ser. You and yours are always welcome here at the Twins! Please, let us drink a toast to your health – and to our Queen's!” Before he could react Jaime found a goblet thrust into his hand, Lord Ryman raising his high into the air.

“To Queen Cersei, First of her Name! To Ser Jaime Lannister, the Hero of Riverrun!”

The Freys in the hall repeated the toast as Jaime nodded sheepishly. He felt disgusted at being toasted by such men – they were unworthy of the ground they walked on, let alone the power they wielded by kissing his dead father's boots.

Taking a sip of the wine – which he quickly placed onto a nearby bench- Jaime approached the high table. “Now, my lord – you know why we are here. As per our agreement I will be escorting Edmure Tully, his wife and son to Casterly Rock to serve as hostages guaranteeing the riverlands submits to you.”

Ryman nodded, his double chins rolling about as he did so. “Yes, of course! Guards!” he snapped his fingers, “Go get Edmure from the dungeons and Roslin and the boy from their apartments!”

As the guards shuffled away Jaime looked about the hall, leaning up onto Ryman's table. “I assume you have not mistreated Edmure, as per our instructions?” he asked, once more forcing a smile.

“Of course not!” Ryman bit into a leg of lamb, “He is our honoured guest. Mind you, he has been for some time now but we don't beat him or torture him. He gets fed thrice per day and has regular bathings.”

_I doubt that given how none of you bathe_. “Good. And his child?”

Ryman shrugged. “The boy stays with Roslin in her apartments. I wasn't about to send one of my own kin to be with her husband in the dungeons. She misses 'dear' Edmure, can you imagine? They were together for one whole night!” he chuckled, messily swallowing the lamb.

“Oh? And the babe?”

“Hoster, can you imagine? She named the bloody kid Hoster – Hoster Tully the Second. Ugh!” Ryman shuddered, a look of distaste coming over his face. “Enough bloody Hoster Tullies for one lifetime. My father wasn't too pleased with it, but – I'll give her credit – at least she didn't decide on Walder or some other variant of such.”

Jaime nodded along with the man. “Good. Well, they will be well treated with us in the westerlands, have no doubt.” I'm sure Roslin will be happy to get away from such delightful relatives.

The clattering of chains interrupted their conversation as Edmure Tully was brought into the room, his clothes slightly dirtied but still presentable. At Ryman's gesture the guards removed his chains. His face was dark with shame as he hung his head down, staring towards the floor.

* * *

“Ah, there is the man!” Ryman bellowed, “It seems your time with us is over, dear Edmure. Ser Jaime is here to take you to your new home.”

At the same time a guard entered with Roslin Frey and her son, Hoster Tully – the boy appeared to look a mix of Tully and Frey; with his mother's face and hair colour and father's eyes. He clutched nervously to her leg as she entered, quickly closing the gap between them to embrace her husband.

“Edmure!” she whispered, sobbing into his shoulder, “oh what have they done to you?”

“Ma-ma, who this?” Hoster babbled, pulling on his father's tunic.

“That's your father, Hoster. Say hello!” Roslin smiled, wiping the tears from her face. Edmure leaned down and opened his arms as the boy hugged him, sniffing at his clothes all the while.

“Da-da smells funny!” he announced, causing some of the Freys to snicker.

“Yes, well your father hasn't been bathed in a while, little Hoster.” Jaime smiled as he walked over to the trio. The boy stared up at him and squealed nervously, hiding against his mother's dress.

“H-hello, Ser Jaime.” Roslin smiled, doing her best to curtsy. “My son, Hoster. This is Jaime, a friend of your ma and dad's. Say hello!”

“H-hullo,” the boy peered out from his mother's dress as Jaime smiled down at him.

Edmure looked to Jaime, his eyes wet with tears. “This...this is it, I suppose.” he sighed, gripping Roslin's hand tightly. “Out of one dungeon and into another...”

“Edmure, don't think that way,” Roslin hugged him once more. “I begged my father and cousin to let you out, to see your son, your wife...they didn't want to listen to me..” she whimpered sadly.

“I promise that no one will keep you from your family again, Edmure. I promise.” Jaime nodded towards him. The man still looked defeated, his eyes downcast and tears dripping onto the floor.

“I...gave up my family's home to see them again. I...got my uncle killed to see them. And now...they have to become prisoners with me.” he sighed. “I've given up everything...even my family...for my new family. Cat, Lysa, my father, my uncle...”

Roslin hugged at his arm. “Please, Edmure. Don't blame yourself...I'm sorry for your uncle. The Blackfish was a good man, I know he was.”

“Ser Addam, if you could see Edmure and his family to our camp and ready their horses? I need a word with Lord Ryman.” As the trio was escorted away Jaime approached the high table once more.

“There is one more thing to ask you, Lord Ryman. As part of my arrangement with Tytos Blackwood I agreed to speak with you regarding his son, Lucas. I understand he died during the Red Wedding, but I will need the boy's bones returned to Raventree Hall.” Jaime placed both hands on the table, keeping his gaze on the fat lord.

“Well, um..” Ryman began to sweat, belching nervously, “We...we buried the highborn dead in a mass grave outside by the Trident. You...you can find him there.”

“I won't find him there. YOU will find him, dress the body – respectfully – and send him along to his father. Or else I can't guarantee the Blackwoods won't revolt again.”

The man nodded, his double chins wobbling rapidly to each side of his neck. “Yes, of course. I will...I will see to it right away! Guards! Get servants out to the highborn grave and find Lucas Blackwood! Now! If you can't find him, I'll have you all whipped!” he yelled, his face growing red.

“Excellent. With that, Lord Ryman – we bid you farewell. Enjoy your feast.” Jaime walked quickly out of the hall without another word, doing his best to hide the sneering disgust on his face.

* * *

Outside at the Lannister camp Edmure and his family were prepared, with fresh horses being readied for their travels. Little Hoster was being held by his father, the boy playing idly with Edmure's messy brown hair.

“My Lord, we're ready.” Ser Addam nodded respectfully as Jaime approached.

“Good work. Now, we all know the plan?” he nodded towards the group.

“Plan?” Edmure looked towards Jaime quizzically. “The plan is...you take us to Casterly Rock, yes?”

“That was the original plan, Edmure. I've altered that plan. Ser Addam and fifty men will be taking you North instead.” Jaime exhaled softly. _I've already gone against my dear sister enough, so what's one time more?_

“I'm afraid I don't understand, Ser Jaime,” Roslin cut in, shivering slightly. “Why would we go North when Casterly Rock is in the westerlands?”

“Because you aren't going to Casterly Rock. Given that it has been sometime since the Red Wedding, Edmure – you may not know this but the Starks have retaken Winterfell from House Bolton. Your niece Sansa Stark sits as its Lady, and Eddard Stark's bastard son Jon Snow rules as King in the North.”

Edmure gaped, his face betraying his astonishment. “Sansa...? She's alive?”

“Yes, alive and well. Ser Addam will travel under a peace banner with you to Moat Cailin, which is now held by the northern forces. He will explain why you are there and who you are. Confirm your identity if you must. From there, you'll be free to carry on to Winterfell – where you can raise your son in peace.” Jaime smiled softly, nodding at Ser Addam.

“But...you are freeing us?” Edmure whispered, his breathing growing rapid. “Why?”

“My sister is insane. She is – I hesitate to use the word – but she is evil. I will not have you placed at her mercy to be used as she likes as well as your wife and son. I made a vow to your sister Catelyn to get her daughters to her safely. I may have failed at that vow, but I can at least get Catelyn's brother to family.”

Turning to Ser Addam Jaime continued, “When you arrive at Winterfell you can remain there as long as you wish. Wait out the winter, return at once – it is up to you. Head for White Harbor and board a ship to Lannisport when you are ready to return home. No one will blame you for any of this – you were merely following my orders.”

The knight nodded, a tight smile forming on his scarred face. “I understand, my lord.”

Roslin looked to Edmure and Hoster, a smile growing on her face. She hugged her husband and son as Edmure put Hoster gently onto the ground, the boy running around and giggling as he picked up clumps of mud. “You..you would do this for Edmure?” she asked, clearly astonished.

Jaime smiled once more. “Yes. It is the least I can do for him. Now, I would hurry north if I were you. I don't want the Freys getting suspicious.”

* * *

 

Jaime walked out of the camp before any more could be said – and went over to where Bronn stood, idly flicking his knife into the ground.

“That's a nice thing you did for 'em, I have to say.” the sellsword nodded his approval.

“Well, I am capable of being nice every now and then.” Jaime snickered. “So, what will you do now? Our time in the Riverlands is over, I suppose. You can go get that highborn wife and castle you always wanted.”

“Bah,” Bronn retorted, picking up his knife. “I'm not cut out for that sort of thing. But I gotta ask – what are you gonna do?”

Jaime smiled tightly, exhaling sharp breaths from his nose. “I suppose there's only one thing that I can do. Let the men go home to the westerlands, to their wives and children. Then I'll be heading for Dragonstone.”

“Dragonstone? You fall and hit your head?” Bronn's face twisted with confusion. “That's where your brother and the Targaryens are.”

“I suppose I will have to see how fond Tyrion is of me, still. If nothing else, Daenerys will have her revenge on the man who slew her father.” he shrugged, grabbing the man and embracing him in a hug – causing Bronn to squirm.

“It's been a pleasure knowing you all of these years, Ser Bronn of the Blackwater. I wish you nothing but the best in this life.” Jaime smiled.

“Hold on, hold on...” Bronn mumbled, brushing his tunic. “If you're heading to see Tyrion I'm coming with ya. Got nothing better to do with my life anyway. And if this does go to shit, well – at least dragon fire kills ya quickly.”

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daenerys returns to Winterfell and gets some bad news. Jon has some freaky visions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope I did Jon's visions while he was teetering on frozen death's door justice. They were meant to be messed up and vivid and strange. I hope you guys enjoy. <3

Drogon touched down outside of Winterfell's main gates just as the morning sun came up, his weight smashing craters into the ground as he bellowed out a roar, waking those within the castle if they were not already up. She hopped down onto the ground as the gates flew open and dozens of soldiers and servants rushed forward, looking to see if there was any sign of their King.Overhead Rhaegal let out a mournful roar as he began circling the castle, obviously still feeling concern for his wounded rider. Daenerys quickly had the guards help her get Jon's breathing yet unconcious form off Drogon's back and they quickly carried him – and his large pile of furs – back into the keep.

Daenerys followed behind as a large group of servants, smallfolk and guards crowded around, whispering to one another about the King – if he was alive, if he was dead, was he one of them, was he abandoning the North? All so many questions that had to be answered right away.

She met Ser Davos at the doors to the Great Hall as he bowed to her. “Your Grace, you bring the King...is he alive?” His face was wracked with concern and Daenerys thought the man looked as though he hadn't slept a wink.

She smiled, nodding to him. “Yes, King Snow is alive. Barely – his body is wracked with cold and he was practically frozen solid when I found him – but he lives.”

A wave of relief washed over the Onion Knight as he opened the doors, ushering her inside. At the table sat Tormund, Arya, and Bran. All of them eyed Daenerys with varying expressions – from worry to gratitude.

“The Dragon Queen says that King Jon lives – barely. The guards are taking him to Maester Wolkan on the double.” Davos announced, taking his seat. “He will need to see what has to be done to help him recover – the fact he's alive is a miracle.”

Bran let out a chuckle, folding his hands on the table, “I told you that Jon would pull through. He's tougher then anyone thinks” Beside him Meera gently nudged him on the arm. “Sorry! I'm just telling the truth.”

As Daenerys sat down beside Tormund, she watched the Wildling casually pick bits of food out of his beard. “Jon Snow's a tough fucker. He's faced the Others and lived before – he'll do it again and again until we can beat 'em.”

“We've also got word from Lord Mazin and the northern host. It seems the Dragon Queen was able to halt them from advancing too close to the Wall just in time.” Davos exhaled, clearly relieved at a somewhat positive turn of events. “They're establishing trenches and defenses just inside the Lonely Hills.”

“How's Jon?” Arya quickly turned to face Daenerys, her eyes dry with tears. “We've been...we've been scared for him.”

“As I told your man Ser Davos he is alive. Unconscious but alive. We briefly were able to rest with the northern camp on our way here – I made sure that he was given a large amount of furs to warm his body. He was practically frozen solid when I was able to get him off the battlefield.” she explained, telling the assembled what had happened with the Wall – at least, from her perspective.

As she finished her tale she looked to the empty seats at the head of the table. “Where is Lady Sansa? I would have thought she'd be delighted to hear the news.”

An uncomfortable silence filled the room. Daenerys narrowed her eyes, her face growing dark with concern. “Has...has something happened?”

Arya explained Sansa's collapse and her current catatonic state. Everyone assembled, even the wildling was sick with worry – their faces betrayed them when the topic of Sansa was brought up. Daenerys nodded, feeling a large bit of sympathy for the family. _After all they've endured, to almost lose their king brother..._

Ser Davos shuffled uncomfortably in his seat as he placed a sheaf of parchment on the table. “There is...something else, Lady Daenerys. This arrived from Dragonstone two days ago.” he slid the parchment across to her.

Daenerys took the letter and began to read:

 

> _My Queen,_
> 
> _If you are receiving this message then I hope your trip North has gone well. I dare not guess what you and Jon Snow are up to in the frozen waste but I can imagine it involves defeating these Others – should they be true and not tales of a wild imagination._
> 
> _Things have not been well here in Dragonstone, I fear. Not long after you left – followed by Ser Davos – a fleet sailed from King's Landing and attacked us. The fleet belonged to Euron Greyjoy, uncle to Theon and Yara. We were able to beat back his armada but lost almost half our own ships in the process._
> 
> _What is more is that somehow Euron has been able to find a way to...bind dragons to his will. He carries a horn, supposedly ancient in origin – something he found in the ruins of old Valyria itself. The horn is able to control the mind of the beasts that hear it's call._
> 
> _I will not mince words. Viserion is gone – Euron has control of it. Highgarden has been sacked and burned and there is talk of the Lannister fleet blockading Oldtown. The Reach is totally cut off from supporting our cause._
> 
> _I am doing what I can to rally the houses of the Reach to remain loyal to you – however, many of the Tyrell banners have already bent the knee to my dear sister. House Oakheart, Mullendore, Roxton, Tarly – many have submitted out of fear of dragon fire._
> 
> _I would ask that you return to us as soon as you can. The war in the North has to...no, it must wait – else you will lose control of Dragonstone and with it, your claim to the Iron Throne._
> 
> _Long may you reign,_
> 
> _Tyrion Lannister, Hand of the Queen_

Daenerys's mind reeled from the news. Her child – Viserion, named for her dead brother Viserys – was gone. In the hands of a madman from the Iron Islands who had thrown his lot in with Cersei Lannister. Her kingdom, her claim – her realm – was collapsing at the seams all around her.

Her hands began to shake first, followed by her feet and legs. Soon her whole body was trembling – not out of cold but out of primal fear. She was on the brink of losing everything she had worked for. Everything she had bled for. What men loyal to her had died for.

Her breathing grew rapid and hoarse as she thought of her remaining children, Drogon and Rhaegal. _As long as they are here then this dragon horn cannot touch them. But I must return to Dragonstone now – I must free Viserion, now!_

“Your Grace?” came Davos's reply, the man pursing his lips as he watched her carefully.

“I...you have your King. I need to go. I need to get to my people and save my dragon.” she announced as she practically leapt from her seat and ran for the gates. Her mind refused to allow her to stop – even as guards and servants called out to her. She smashed her way past anyone who stood before her and raced to Drogon's side, climbing atop him before anyone milling about could react.

As he prepared to lift off Daenerys thought of the Long Night – the armies of the dead and the power of the Others. Part of her tried to convince her to stay. But she knew that it was impossible – what kind of ruler would she be if she abandoned her kingdom as well as her child?

“Your Grace!” Somehow, Ser Davos had been able to catch up to her and now stood as close as Drogon allowed, his roaring almost deafening as she patted him soothingly.

“What will you do now? What about the Others?” he pleaded.

Daenerys nodded, her body still trembling as she struggled to find her voice. “I...I will return when this is settled. You have...my word. Tell King Snow that Rhaegal is his until such time that Euron Greyjoy is dealt with.”

She took off with a start, Drogon soaring off towards the south – and towards her crumbling kingdom.

* * *

Maester Wolkan fed the spoon into Jon's mouth, his body continuing to tremble. He'd been placed by the fire almost as soon as the guards had brought him here, with the warm soup being one of the few remedies that he could try. Having served as long as he had the maester had never seen a case of hypothermia as severe as this before. It was almost as though the King was frozen from the inside out – something that had never happened in recorded history.

Thankfully the fire and a fresh round of furs had warmed his body temperature somewhat and his severe shaking spells had eased. His family – Bran, Arya and even Ser Davos – had wanted to see him at once but Wolkan knew that the man needed to rest. He needed to eat – and the soup he'd been feeding to him was meant to warm a man's belly when it was most needed.

Jon's eyes never opened but the maester knew he was at least somewhat lucid – being able to swallow the liquid as though he were awake. Inside of his mind however Jon was wracked with vivid images and dreams – dreams that had started just as soon as the blackness claimed him as the Wall fell around him.

He saw the Night King once again, its face contorting into that of Petyr Baelish. It mocked him – the voice sounding almost identical to the Vale lord's – as it took Sansa into its arms, embracing her with a lustful kiss. Sansa then turned into solid ice and shattered into a thousand screaming bats that clawed and thrashed at Jon's helpless body.

He saw his father, Eddard Stark – his true father, not Rhaegar Targaryen – kneeling before the Great Sept of Baelor, his head being removed with his own Valyrian sword. He watched as the headsman picked up his head and held it aloft for all to see, the crowd cheering and screaming its approval – only for Jon to stare at them and watch as they all turned into Others.

He was back at Castle Black as he prepared to hang Alliser Thorne and the others. As he cut the rope he watched as the Wall came crashing down instead, the bodies of the mutineers laughing at him as the undead horde rushed in.

He saw Catelyn Stark – once again mocking him for being a bastard. She scowled, sneered and laughed at his pain and misery. Even now as he lay at death's door once again she was there, trying to ensure that he would die and she would be free of her husband's sin. “Why should you live and Robb and Rickon not?!” the shade demanded of Jon. He could not answer as he had no mouth to reply.

He saw Winterfell in ruins, ice and snow coating the once proud castle. Everyone – from Bran to Arya to Tormund and Sansa – were all dead and reanimated as wights, their cold blue eyes staring towards him. They neither moved nor reacted as he approached – only to find the Night King staring back at him with the face of his father. His Targaryen father, Rhaegar.

He heard the screaming of dragons before an avalanche of disembodied hands dragged him screaming into the crypts, dumping him before his father's grave as the statues mocked him, shouted abuses and profanities at him. He watched as fire raced through the crypts and consumed everyone and everything – including himself. But he did not burn, he merely watched as his father's visage melted away into oblivion.

He was back at the Wall, falling from the tallest point. As he fell he landed in a horde of wights who snarled at him, ripping and tearing and scratching and biting as he cried out, screaming in agony. His cries were met with laughter as they continued their ravaging assault upon him. In an instant those wights were gone, replaced instead with piles of ash.

He was in King's Landing – or at least what he imagined the city would be. It was encased in ice and snow so deep that he could hardly move. All around him the people died in droves, their anguished cries beseeching him for salvation. He watched the Night King sit himself on the Iron Throne as the entire chair became encased in ice – the ice bleeding red as it formed around each blade.

Finally he was falling into a black void. All around him he saw the faces of those he loved – of his father, of Robb, Rickon, Bran, Arya – and Sansa. Most of all was Sansa's face. Her beautiful, kind but strong and firm face. The face of his wife – the one he promised to return home to. He watched them say their vows at the heart tree as they had done in the dead of night and watched the times they had made love.

He had to fight. He had to endure. He could not fall once more into eternal sleep – he had a reason for living. A true, tested and tried reason for living. Not the North. Not stopping the Long Night. Not even being some kind of hero or foretold figure as the Red Priestess believed him to be.

His reason had red hair and blue eyes.

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon regains consciousness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I couldn't progress the story without progressing Jon's recovery and his reunion with Sansa, because I'm a sap like that. Sue me! lol

Jon awoke with a start, gasping for air rapidly as though suffocating. Looking about as his vision returned he saw that he was in front of the hearth in the Lord's Chamber. His body was piled with furs and he'd been changed out of his armor and into a loose fitting tunic and breeches. His head hurt as he looked about the room, the rapidity of his awakening causing him to feel dizzy as a result.

“Ugh....” he moaned, grasping his head gently. He heard a shuffling of footsteps as Maester Wolkan rushed to his side.

“Your Grace, easy...you need to relax,” the man whispered softly as he approached with another bowl of soup in his hands. “rising too quickly after what you have been through will only cause your pains to get even worse.”

“I...I don't remember anything.” Jon replied, the pain in his head overwhelming his sense; he felt as though he wanted to take Longclaw and slice his head in half in hopes of finding relief. He struggled to recall the last moments of his consciousness – he remembered fighting against the Others just before the Wall and then nothing.

“The Dragon Queen brought you here on her beast. When I began tending to you after you returned you were on death's door with how cold and pale you were. It was as though you were frozen from the inside out.” Maester Wolkan went on, offering Jon the bowl of soup. Accepting with a nod he began to take small sips as the man continued on, “I have spent the better part of the last four days trying to keep your body temperature up so that you would be able to recover.”

“It's been how long?” Jon felt the soup in the back of his throat, the warm meaty flavor shooting into his bones ever so briefly. “I...I have to get back to the Wall. We need to defend Castle Black.”

“Since the Wall's collapse? Six days, my lord. Since your return, four days. And you can do no such thing – the Wall has fallen to the Others and their army. The Last Hearth is being besieged by wights as well.” the maester sighed softly, his face betraying the look of fear in his eyes.

Jon's mind reeled at the information. _It was almost a week since the Others were able to break through the Wall? What has the North been doing since then?_ “We need...need to call the banners. Get Daenerys to he -”

“Lady Targaryen departed not long after she returned you here. There was some distressing news from Dragonstone for her – apparently her third dragon has been stolen by a pirate king or something of the sort.” Wolkan scoffed, shaking his head. “They say he has a horn from old Valyria that can control dragons. Can you imagine?”

Jon shakily rose to his feet, the maester grasping his arm gently. “Sansa. I n...I need to see Sansa. We have to talk about this all..” he whispered, overwhelmed by the information being given to him. “Plan...plan our next move.”

“I'm afraid the Lady Sansa has been catatonic since news of the Wall's fall reached us. It seems she feared you were dead – as did the rest of the family. Almost twenty thousand men lost in the blink of an eye – we all thought you were one of them, my lord.”

“I...I have to see her. Tell her that I'm alright. Please, Maester. She's...she's my family.” Jon pleaded, his body screaming its rebellion as he took a step forward. His joints felt as though they were on fire and his head pulsed with every action.

“Of course, my lord. But I have to ask that you allow me to accompany you. Your body is still quite weak from the hypothermia. We cannot risk you collapsing.”

* * *

Jon nodded his ascent as they began to walk gently towards Sansa's bedroom. Jon thought of his wife – the one he loved, the one who he fought to live for – and tried to keep from crying. He had to be strong, especially now in front of the maester. Not even Wolkan had been told the truth of Jon's parentage yet – so as to keep any prying eyes or ears from finding out.

_Sansa, my love...I kept my promise. I'm back,_ Jon's mind was able to reason in a moment of clarity. His mind remembered each rendezvous they had in her bedroom, each kiss and touch and obscene act as the men entered, Jon grasping tightly to the maester's shoulder. His legs still roared out their disapproval with every step that they took – and his muscles felt so weak that they threatened to collapse at the slightest exertion.

As he was lead to a chair at Sansa's side Jon smiled down at her. She turned her head and stared up at him – her face pale and skin cold and clammy. She was still as beautiful as ever though, as Jon reached out and took her hand in his. “Sansa...I'm here. I told you that...that I would come back.” he whispered softly towards her. “I'm sorry I...I was late.” he allowed himself a faint chuckle.

He watched as Sansa's eyes blinked at him, her mouth opening ever so slightly. Her free hand snaked up to brush against his cheek and she began to mouth words, clearly astonished at his presence. “Don't worry, sweetling – I'm real.” he reassured her, his vision cloudy with tears. As Wolkan was in another room – Jon could hear him fumbling around for potions – he leaned down and placed a gentle kiss upon her lips.

That reignited her almost at once. She sat up in the bed and threw her arms around him, sobbing profusely into his neck. “Jon...Jon, you're alive...” she whimpered, placing kisses of her own onto his skin, “They said that you had died with the Wall...I thought you had left me...”

Jon smiled, wrapping his arms around her as softly as he could. “No...no, Sansa – I had good reason to stay alive. I promise you that one,” he tried his best to blink the tears out of his eyes as she continued to kiss his neck and shoulder, her hands running up and down the small of his back.

Sansa looked about the room – finding it empty she leaned up and kissed him on the lips, her touch warm and passionate on Jon's cool skin. He relished in all of the sensations that he felt of her – the smells, the touch, the sight, the sounds – as heat began to rush back to him almost as fast as it did when he was by the fire.

She broke the kiss and sobbed once again, hugging him in a vice-like grip. He shivered at her touch as she squeezed him tight. “Don't leave me Jon, not ever...promise me.” she whispered, gently nipping at his neck as he let out a little gasp.

“I will never leave you, my love.” he smiled, finding comfort in the arms of his wife was better then any soup or fur. He had sworn himself to this woman – this perfect, radiant treasure of a woman – and part of his oath was to return to her safe and sound every time he left. Be it commanding a host or fighting a war – he would come back.

_The old gods as my witnesses, I will keep my vows._

* * *

 

That was how the maester found them, hugging one another tightly. He smiled as he shuffled to the bedside. “I'm glad you feel better, Lady Sansa. We have all been worried about you.”

“Thank you, Maester.” she smiled, breaking the embrace only reluctantly. “I...I feel better now knowing Jon is alive. The thought of losing another after already having lost Rickon and Robb..”

“I understand, my lady.”

“Where...where are Bran and Arya?” Jon asked, a look of confusion coming over his face. He would have thought they'd be by Sansa's side given all that happened.

“Rest assured both Lady Arya and Lord Bran have been by the lady's side since she took ill. But there were visitors at the gates requesting an audience with the Lord of Winterfell – and given you were still unconscious the pair volunteered to see these visitors.” the maester nodded, placing the two potions he carried onto the night table.

“Visitors? What visitors?” Sansa asked, curiosity coming over her face. Jon held her hand, smiling as he felt the warmth return to her body.

“From the Neck if you would believe, my lady.” Wolkan shrugged, picking up an empty vial from the table and placing it into his robe pocket. “Their sigil was a green lizard lion, so large it appeared to be eating its own tail. House Reed – from what I understand, the ruling house of the crannog-men.”

 


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daenerys races to Dragonstone. Cersei plots some stuff.

The rain over the Riverlands lashed against Daenerys's skin as she flew, Drogon soaring through the massive grey clouds that peppered them continuously. Her furs and dress were soaked through and she began to shiver uncontrollably.

_I can't stop,_ she knew. _My Viserion needs me_. She had to find out a way to get him free of Euron Greyjoy – who apparently was able to travel to the ruins of ancient Valyria and survive, without becoming infected by grey-scale or disappearing altogether. The fact that he was able to take control of one of the three living dragons in the known world was outrageous in and of itself, but the fact the object he used to take control was from Daenerys's ancestral homeland was especially egregious.

She knew nothing about this man other then what Theon and Yara had told her. He apparently had a reputation as an eccentric, having sailed the known world with his flagship _Silence_ – crewed entirely by men who had their tongues removed. He boasted of having been to the most remote ports of Yi Ti and to having braved Valyria itself and survived.

_It seems he wasn't lying about that part, at least._ Yara described him as “violence and cruelty given form”, and it also seemed he had a certain level of cunning uncommon in the ironborn; he was able to manipulate events so that his murder of Balon Greyjoy elevated him to a heroic standing among many of the captains and guaranteed his election at the Kingsmoot.

The rains finally began to slow down after what felt like an eternity as Drogon dipped down from the clouds to soar over the open skies. Daenerys felt the cool winds race across her face, a vast change from the harsh and sharp gusts that she'd endured in the storm.

Despite her hasty departure after the news of Viserion's capture had come out, Daenerys still found her mind wandering back to Winterfell. She saw the vast and unending hordes of dead swarming through the collapsed Wall and heard the screams of the dead and dying.

_The true fight is in the North,_ she knew now without a shadow of a doubt. There was no alternative for her to pursue – after she guaranteed Viserion's freedom from Euron Greyjoy she would bring both him and Drogon north to ensure the defeat of the Others.

She saw Jon Snow, his shivering and near dead body draped across where she now sat. She saw his face, wracked with pain and agony. _He will live_ , Daenerys knew.

The King in the North was strong – far stronger then even she was. He had essentially been fighting for his whole life. Being raised a bastard alongside Lord Eddard's other children – and earning the hatred of his lady wife. He had to fight for his survival even at Winterfell.

That did not mention all of the fighting he'd done as a member of the Watch. Jon had told her of his fights against the Wildlings, against traitorous black brothers, the Others and even against houses Bolton, Karstark and Umber.

She knew that the North would survive under his leadership until she was able to return. As for the question of ruling the region – she had accepted that the North would need to remain independent if she was to enjoy a peaceful and lengthy reign.

_An alliance with the rest of the Kingdoms, then. We'll work this out together, Jon Snow._

But of course such talk would have to wait. She had a dragon to save.

* * *

The screams of the condemned prisoners filled Cersei's ears as she watched, their skin burning, bones blackening and their blood boiling as Viserion reigned fire down upon them. She had ordered the ruins of the Dragonpit – the place where the Targaryens had once kept their brood – refitted to accommodate Euron's pet, and she'd enjoyed attending the demonstrations he put on for her.

The man was proving useful, Cersei admitted. They had arranged their wedding to coincide with the defeat of the Targaryen girl, and for now things were proceeding smoothly. With the sacking of Highgarden and the defeat of House Tyrell, the vast majority of the Reach's lords had bent the knee to her.

Beside her on the dais stood various noble lords and ladies – Cersei liked to bring them to these public events as a show of force. The nobility needed to accept her rule as Queen, and fast. And now, with Euron's ironborn plundering and raping their way along the Shield Islands they would learn that anyone who even dared consider defying her would meet a gruesome end.

Drinking deeply of her wine Cersei smirked to the nobles at her side. They had looks ranging from horror to disgust to terror on their withered and young faces.

“So now you see what happens to those who betray the realm, my dear lords and ladies.” she droned casually, “Obey your Queen and you need not share this fate. Your lands will remain peaceful and prosperous. Betray me, and...well, you see what happens.”

She nodded to the guards at her left as they began to lead the group away. Euron was at her side almost at once as Viserion was corralled back into his pen. The man walked with a swagger, brimming with confidence. Considering he was now in control of a dragon, Cersei understood his new found bravado.

“Another satisfied customer,” he laughed, leaning up against one of the support beams. “Also, you'll be happy to learn that my raiders have taken Oakenshield castle and are putting the people to the sword just as you enjoy.”

Cersei nodded her approval. “You know how to impress me, dear beloved.”

Euron shot a wink in her direction, helping himself to some fruits on the table in front of them. “You know, I was thinking..” he began, messily devouring a banana, peel and all, “Why not burn down Highgarden as a whole? Level the entire castle as a reminder of what happens to those who betray you.”

Cersei was sorely tempted to do such a thing, but she knew that the castle would prove useful. It was ancient, going back thousands of years. “We need it reasonably intact in order to secure a new family as lords.” A list of names had been presented to her almost at once by Qyburn.

“Anyone in particular you have in mind?”

“House Tarly of Horn Hill – they seem open to my reign the most of the Reach families,” she mused openly, popping a few grapes into her mouth. Randyll Tarly, the lord of the House had been one of the first to bend the knee after Euron's attack. She'd been in discussions with the man for some time about the future of the region.

“That's the bald one who called me a 'no good shit', right?” Euron grinned. “I like him already! He's bold.”

Cersei swilled her wine around in the cup. The letters between her and Tarly were indicative enough but she would need something more concrete to ensure his loyalty. “We'll need something from him to prove his loyalty. I understand he's a daughter. He'll send her to King's Landing as a handmaiden...and he knows what will happen should he betray us.”

Euron tapped his nose. “Smart thinking. I'd have just burned down his castle and offered to rebuild it if he does a good job.”

“Speaking of burning – you had mentioned Oldtown, did you not?” Cersei raised a slender brow. He'd spent the last few days talking about how he wanted to attack the city given its position as one of the oldest in the Seven Kingdoms. “Have you any progress there?”

“My fleet's blockaded the ports from the sea. Taken a good chunk of trading vessels too, some nice hauls there.” he smirked, shrugging. “I'll take the beast on a pass around the city if you want me to, but the Hightower? I'd rather take it as my stronghold, if you don't mind.”

_Do whatever you want with it, I could care less._ “Fine, fine. It's yours.”

“Have you had your fun with the old woman yet? I'd love so dearly to watch my wife to be work.” Euron of course spoke of Olenna Tyrell, who'd been taken captive when he attacked Highgarden. Cersei kept her in one of the apartments in the Red Keep – at least for now.

“No, and she is mine to do with what I wish. You have your pleasures, Euron – I have mine.” she smirked. _How shall I best torment her? Make her walk among the Sept of Baelor? Have her sort the ashes of her dead family? So many decisions..._

“Oh, fine. Well, if you'll excuse me – I need to consult with my Fleet.” and in a flash, Euron was gone, his footsteps echoing through the Dragonpit.

Cersei gestured to her right where Qyburn had entered, her loyal Hand standing off to the shadows. “Any luck?” she demanded, casting a gaze to the old man. He'd promised to find a way to gain the allegiance of the dragon away from Euron – once that was done, she would be able to dispose of the irritating lord as she saw fit.

“Nothing yet, I'm afraid Your Grace,” he tittered apologetically. “He allowed me to view the horn but did not allow me to examine it. I did note the runes on either side did at least confirm part of the story – they are Valyrian in origin.”

That unnerved her. Items from ancient Valyria were unstable and wild at best. _How was it that a glorified pirate king was able to find, master and utilize such a relic?_

“Furthermore, the tales told by some of the iron men are quite disturbing,” he continued, “the horn itself – I am still trying to translate the runes – is said to burn hot with dragon blood, and whomever blows it will be devoured by flame from the inside out.”

“If only that had happened to Euron, it would have made my life much simpler.” Cersei sighed. _If I could have a dragon of my own...no one would dare try to take my throne. “_ Keep working on the runes. Do what you can with the horn for now.”

As he shuffled away Cersei smirked, downing the last drops of wine from her cup. Soon, she would command the beast – and have no more need for any husband. She would be the master of Westeros – and it was only fitting given all she had sacrificed.

 

 


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Sansa meet with Howland Reed.

The meeting was still in progress as Jon was helped into the Great Hall, leaning on Maester Wolkan for support as he wobbled his way to the Lord's Chair. Bran and Arya sat to the left while across from them sat Howland Reed – a short man with graying hair and shriveled skin. He was garbed in a green tunic and woolen green pants, with a large cloak concealing most of his face from the light. At his side sat a young man garbed in the same green tunic who gently held the man's arm.

“Lord Reed,” Jon coughed out, sitting down gingerly at his seat. “I apologize for...for my absence. I was just able to w-”

“There is no need to apologize, Your Grace,” the crannog man interrupted with a gentle smile, “I was merely catching up with my daughter and your siblings.” It was then Jon noted Meera was sitting on the left side of her father, her hand squeezing his gently.

Sansa seated herself as well, greeting Lord Reed with a bow of her head. “Welcome to Winterfell, Lord Howland. My father often spoke of your bravery on the field of battle.”

“Your father was too modest, I am afraid. He did most of the work,” Reed chuckled, gesturing to the man at his right. “Ah, forgive me. This is Clydas Marsh, my loyal retainer and castellan.” 

The man bowed his head, his green eyes glittering in the morning sun. “M'lord, m'lady.”

“A pleasure, ser.” Jon nodded, groaning slightly as he adjusted his legs. The pain was from disuse as Maester Wolkan had told him; with time the muscles in his body would recover and he would be able to do all he did without pain. “I am surprised to see you emerge from the Neck. I remember father saying that you were too ill.”

“I have been unwell since the end of the rebellion, sad to say.” Howland smiled towards his daughter, “I was regretfully unable to spend much time with my children, either – the wound I suffered during the conflict still pains me to this day.”

“Lord Reed,” Bran looked towards him guiltily. “I'm...I'm sorry about Jojen. I tried -”

“You have nothing to apologize for, Lord Stark. Jojen told me of his fate before he and Meera left the Neck. He had embraced his end as he knew it would lead to you.”

“I still feel as though all of this is...is my fault.” Bran slumped in his chair, downcast.

“None of that, Bran!” Meera chided him from across the table. “Father, I had meant to tell you -”

“...that you will be marrying into the Stark family? Oh, I already had an inkling that you would be, Meera.” Howland smirked towards her, “I was in love once too, you know.”

“I have to ask, Lord Reed,” Sansa started, placing her hands gently on the table. Her face was still rather pale and clammy – but Jon saw that she was quickly returning to the lovely and confident woman he married. “my father always spoke of your loyalty to House Stark – yet we returned here without the aid of the crannog men.”

“I can explain that, m'lady,” Clydas replied, nodding towards his lord. “If we'd left the Neck our people would have been useless in battle. Our specialty is guarding the marshlands – not fighting in the open. The Boltons would have run roughshod over our hunters and fighters, sad to say.”

Jon nodded. It was true – the crannog men were meant for harassing enemies in the deep bogs, not fighting pitched battles.  _I can't blame them for not sending troops_ , he reasoned.

Sansa nodded, her face thoughtful. The cold and vengeful lady of before would have ripped into the Reeds for not helping their House, but since her talks and debates and nights with Jon she had finally been able to gradually open up to his ideas. “I understand. It is just...many in the North professed their loyalty for our family only to refuse us when we needed them.”

“The Boltons were able to rule through fear,” Howland admitted, sighing. “no one wanted to end up becoming the next skins on the Dreadfort's wall. But I can take pride in admitting that we harassed their garrison at Moat Cailin as vigilantly as we did the ironborn.” he smirked.

Arya looked around the room, her eyes narrowing. “Why'd you travel all this way? I can't imagine it's just to talk about the what ifs.” she questioned.

“Ah, yes. Clydas? The chest.” The young man rose to his feet and walked rapidly from the hall, re-entering a moment later carrying a large iron chest, the lizard-lion of House Reed emblazoned on the lid. He placed it on the table for all to examine.

“Thank you,” Howland nodded as his retainer sat down. “I...I do not know how much you know about your father, Your Grace.” he exhaled sharply, idly licking at his chapped lips. “but he entrusted me to the contents of this chest.”

“We know, Lord Reed.” Jon cut in as he stared towards it. “Bran?”

Bran explained to the crannog man about his visions and what they had witnessed at the Tower of Joy.

“Then I need not have to worry about explaining!” the lord chuckled, appearing relieved. “Lord Eddard had wanted to tell you himself once you had taken the black, but he never got the chance, I am afraid. And now, as the last one to survive the Tower of Joy it was to fall to me.”

Clydas produced a small and weathered key, sliding it across the table where it clanged against the chest. “This will open it, Your Grace.” he smiled.

Jon closed his eyes, exhaling sharply. Before him he saw his father – his true father, Eddard Stark – holding him as Bran had shown in the vision. He remembered the young Lord Stark smiling down at the infant in his arms.

“I...I assume the papers are in here? About my parents?”

“Yes, Your Grace.” Howland replied, his voice growing slightly hoarse, “Marriage papers for Lyanna Stark and Rhaegar Targaryen, your mother's undelivered letter to your grandfather and even some papers that were found in the tower belonging to Prince Rhaegar.”

“And my father entrusted you with this?” Jon asked, chewing on his lower lip.

  
“Yes. This was only to be given to you if he were to die without revealing your parentage.”

Jon felt Sansa squeeze his hand under the table. _With her by my side, I can do this. We can do this._ He picked up the key and placed it gently into his pocket. “I will...I will look at this later.” he announced simply.

“There is one thing, Your Grace...” Howland's eyes darted about the room before he nodded, seemingly to himself. “when this revelation is made public it..it may damage your standing as King in the eyes of some of the houses.”

“We've already considered that, Lord Reed – and I believe I have a solution.” Sansa smiled, drumming her hand on the table. “When the announcement is made I will then proclaim that as a true-born daughter of Ned Stark, Jon and I will wed. It will secure him the throne and let the north know that we stand by him.”

A sly smile worked its way up the crannog man's face. “An excellent solution, Lady Sansa. Is it one that you are both open to? Going from half-siblings to husband and wife is a great change in your relationship.”

“We...we've accepted that it's what has to happen so the North is united.” Jon smiled towards Sansa as she squeezed his hand even tighter. _Of course, they would never know that we were already wed the night of Daenerys's arrival.._

“Well I hope you don't expect me to call you anything else Jon, because you're still my brother.” Arya grinned, rolling her eyes in a teasing manner. “though I have to say it does seem kind of weird at least from a family perspective.”

“Sansa's right, Arya. It's the best option for keeping the North united – especially now given what we face.” Jon assured them. He had to get Rhaegal back to the battlefield and fast – with Drogon no longer available the northern host would need constant protection.

Sansa rose to her feet, nodding respectfully to the assembled. “I need...need to discuss things with Jon in private, if you all wouldn't mind.”

* * *

As the room emptied Jon rose from his seat and walked over to the window, staring out into the vast and snowy plains that was the North. It was still almost surreal to him – to find out that after all of this time he was not a bastard at all. That the man who he knew as his father was not and that his mother wasn't a common girl he'd bedded.

Jon rubbed at his forehead as he felt the pains of a headache returning. As he did so he felt Sansa's arms snake around his waist as she leaned into his back, brushing her lips against his ear. “It's okay now Jon...” she whispered, her voice cracking slightly, “we can feel how we want to about each other. No more hiding or secrets...just our love.”

He nodded, turning his head to capture her lips in his own. “After all you've been through Sansa – I hope I prove worthy.”

“Jon, don't even say that.” Sansa licked at her lips, “you've always been worthy. Of me, of the North..of everything.” she rested her chin upon his shoulder and stared towards the midday sun. “I know that if father were alive he would approve of the man you'd become.”

 _Would he? Jon_ had always tried to live up to his father's image of the Northern warrior; he'd known from an early age that he would never be a lord or a knight or anything of prominence in his family – being 'the bastard' – but he had always done what he could to make his father proud. Of course, Ned Stark wasn't his father in terms of blood or lineage but his uncle. His true father was a man who Jon had never met; cut down before he was even born.

“I hope he would be.” Jon admitted, still feeling the pangs of guilt in his heart. He knew that Lady Catelyn had always feared that he would steal Robb's birthright – indeed, any of her children's – as she had the image of bastards as being cruel, sinful creatures of lust and rage. “I just...sometimes wonder what your mother might think if she knew the truth.”

Sansa squeezed Jon tighter as she nuzzled his neck. “Hard to say, really. She would be ashamed of how she was with you, I know that for sure.” Sansa's touch warmed Jon inside and out; it was like a fire being rekindled in the frozen depths of his soul.

 _I need to return to the fight._ “I...I have to get to the northern camp with Rhaegal.” Jon sighed, his eyes staring towards his feet. “but I don't want to leave you, Sansa. Not again.”

Sansa grinned, turning Jon around to face her. “Then we'll go to the front lines together. There are ravens there – and I can rule in your name while you fight. If you trust me, of course..”

Jon snorted in disbelief. “Of course I trust you, sweet girl.” he brushed a hand against her cheek, “I trust you with my life – or what's left of it.” he snickered. “I just wonder what to do with Baelish -”

“He dies.” Sansa nodded, her face growing firm and hard. “I won't let him endanger you or us. He has no leverage over the North now – his Knights were decimated at the Wall. We can jettison the Eyrie without any problems.”

Jon knew that without the Knights of the Vale, the North would be greatly weakened in the days to come. But there were no Knights left; the vast majority having died when the Others collapsed Castle Black. There were maybe some two or three thousand left; those lucky enough to be manning Greyguard or Rimegate when the battle began. “I won't be mourning if he suffers an accident.”

Sansa smirked, placing her hands in Jon's own. “But dear, sweet Petyr has always been so kind to me,” she whispered, her voice shrill and mocking. “it would be such a shame if something happened...”

“Wouldn't it?” Jon chuckled. “I won't tolerate that man and his divisions any longer, Sansa. We ride for the front lines – you and me. And as for him – well, you know what has to be done.” He knew that Sansa was a stronger and determined woman now – she was a true warrior.

A true Queen.

 


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daenerys plans her attack on King's Landing. Theon volunteers.

“Is the fleet assembled yet?” she demanded, looking up from the assortment of maps, charts and other parchments scattered about the Painted Table. Daenerys had returned to Dragonstone not two days prior and she had already begun work on her plans to retake Viserion from Euron Greyjoy.

She was in a meeting with Tyrion, Varys, Missandei, Yara, Theon, their uncle Aeron, Grey Worm and Lord Mathis Rowan, one of the few lords of the Reach to have not bent the knee to Cersei following her attack on Highgarden. The loss of the Reach was a devastating blow to her cause, with most of the troops that had marched to the Stormlands to defend it striking their banners and marching for the Lannister lines.

“We've prepared as best we could on such short notice,” Tyrion noted, using a quill at his side to point towards the map. “Most of the Reach ships have sailed home but the ones that remain under Lord Rowan have assembled just off Storm's End.”

Lord Rowan nodded, tapping his hands atop the table. “House Rowan will never recognize the authority of Cersei Lannister,” he huffed, gritting his teeth together. “I've salvaged as many troops loyal to House Targaryen as I could from the lot, Your Grace.”

“And your loyalty will be repaid tenfold when this war is done, Lord Rowan.” Daenerys smiled and inclined her head. I am losing this war and it has barely begun, she knew. It was not only Highgarden and the Reach that had suffered losses but Dorne as well – with the death of its ruler Ellaria Sand, the Dornish levies had been thrown into disarray. “Is there any news from Dorne, Varys?”

The eunuch shook his head, a frown creasing his lips. “There is, but not of the good variety I am afraid. The Lannister fleet from Lannisport still makes sorties off the coast and the new rulers – I believe two more of Oberyn Martell's bastard daughters – are not as effective as Ellaria Sand was in calling banners.”

“Then we can't rely on them or the Tyrells,” Daenerys sighed, rubbing her head as a headache began to blur her senses. There was almost no choice for her, now – her forces would need to race for King's Landing while Euron was away with Viserion attacking Oldtown. If they could take the city it would force Greyjoy back to help defend his bride-to-be.

“We need a plan, then.” Yara stated, looking from one end of the table to the other. “Oldtown is our uncle's main target. The birds say that he's blockaded the ports and has the dragon circling over Hightower.”

“He's trying to threaten them into surrender.” Tyrion replied, shrugging his shoulders. “That much is clear. House Hightower is not the type to give in when it comes to ironborn invaders.”

Aeron Greyjoy looked to Daenerys, his sunken eyes shooting daggers at her. “Euron does not care about Hightower or the city. He is simply trying to throw your allies off balance so he may take what he wants.”

“And what does he want, Lord Greyjoy?” Varys asked.

“Euron is always talking about magic and spells. The fact he was able to venture into the ruins of Valyria and survive is no small feat. The green lands have only one place that has knowledge of ancient cultures in the world.” the Drowned Priest scowled as he stared towards the sea. “Euron wants the Citadel.”

“If he gets it, we may as well just kill ourselves.” Theon whispered, his voice fearful and bleak. “He's a dangerous man involved with dangerous things.”

“If we attack Oldtown now while Euron has the Horn there is no telling what will happen to Drogon when he uses it, and I know he will.” Tyrion frowned, pursing his lips together. “We need to attack King's Landing so as to draw him back.”

“He doesn't care about Cersei Lannister!” Yara protested, slamming a fist into the table. “He's using her to advance himself while he collects what he's after.”

“You were his prisoner, Yara.” Daenerys said, turning to the ironborn. “Did he speak of anything else besides the horn?”

“No. Not while I was aboard.”

“I...I have an idea.” was Theon's reply as he stared towards Daenerys. “We...I'll take some of our ironborn ships to Oldtown. Harass Euron's fleet as best I can while the rest of you make for King's Landing. He'll have to focus on me instead of going for the Citadel.”

“Are you insane, Theon?!” Yara shouted, grasping him by the arm. “You'll be killed!”

“What is dead may never die -”

“...but rises again harder and stronger.” Aeron finished the ironborn mantra for him.

Daenerys studied the boy intently. He'd told tales of his horrific torture at the hands of the now-dead Bastard of Bolton up in the North – of how he had longed for acceptance from his family, who despised him due to his time as a ward of Eddard Stark.

But Theon was not the timid and reserved individual she'd met in Meereen – he'd changed and become more confident in himself and his identity as part of House Greyjoy.

_Let's put that mantra to the test, then._ “I agree with him. Theon, you'll have your pick of the best ironborn ships in my fleet. Do what you can to cause as much misery for your uncle as possible.”

Yara shot out of the chair, her face caked with anger. “No! Theon is in no state to fight against my uncle of all people!” she warned, her eyes glancing to him, “He's the only family I have left, Your Grace. Please – don't send him on what's essentially a suicide mission.”

“Yara,” Theon looked at her, a sad smile creasing his lips. “I can do this – it will be a chance for the Queen to capture King's Landing and end the war. I think...my life is a risk worth taking for that. And besides – this will be my atonement for...for everything I've done.”

“Theon...” she began, but the words would not come. She felt totally helpless as she sank back into her chair, a pained look upon her face.

“I wouldn't write the boy off too early, Lady Greyjoy.” Varys added, smiling towards her. “It was Theon here who lead the boarding party that rescued you from the Silence.”

Daenerys nodded, inhaling and exhaling sharply. “It's decided. Prepare the fleets, Tyrion. We leave for King's Landing as soon as possible. Theon, assemble your ships.”

_This is the endgame for the southern war_ , she knew. When the capital had fallen and Viserion had been freed from Euron Greyjoy's control she would return North with Drogon and fight against the Others once more – as they were the true enemy.

_The one that matters._

* * *

Theon stood at the docks overlooking his fleet. He'd chosen some two dozen ships in all, the kraken of Greyjoy flying proudly upon their sails. As the cool wind brushed against his tattered hair he smiled. For the first time in his life – since everything that had happened with the Starks, with the Boltons, everything – he was at peace with a choice he'd made. There was a good chance he'd not come back alive from this mission – but it was something that he had to do.

He thought back on his life before now, realizing all the pain and harm he'd caused. To the Starks, to Robb...to his sister, to himself. Exhaling sharply he brought his hands to his temples and rubbed gently.

_This is my chance at redemption,_ he mused. _If I die I can die as a hero, not as Theon Turncloak._

“I wish you wouldn't do this,” Yara snapped as she walked up behind him. “You don't need to prove anything to anyone, Theon.” Her voice was almost pleading him not to go.

“I'm not looking to prove anything, Yara.” he replied, his voice soft and accepting. “I'm doing this for all of us – for the Queen, for you, even for Tyrion Lannister. Euron needs to be stopped – and I will do my part to make that happen.”

She grasped his shoulder tightly, her hand squeezing it in her vice grip. “I just got my brother back. I don't want to lose him again.” A pregnant pause filled the air, the only sounds being the shouts of sailors or the rigging of lines as the Targaryen fleet sailed out to sea all around them.

“I could never be the ironborn you are, Yara.” he smiled, placing a hand upon her own, “but this is my chance to do something that matters in my life. To stop hiding, hating or running.” As he finished speaking Theon proceeded towards his ship, docked just a few feet away.

“Theon!” Yara shouted, causing him to pause. “You've always been worthy of our name. Now – come back alive, or I'll drag you from the Drowned God's hall myself.” she smirked as he boarded the ship, shouting commands to his crew.

As she watched her brother's ship disembark Yara's thoughts turned to their father and brothers, long having been claimed by the sea. She wondered what Rodrick and Maron would make of Theon now – being that they used to tease him relentlessly as children.

_He is Ironborn. Heart-and-soul – if only you could see him now Father._

 


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Sansa reveal a secret to their bannermen. Sansa rides a dragon(literally)

“Are you sure about this Sansa? I don't want to force you...” Jon asked, keeping his voice low.

A smirk crossed her face as she stared towards him and Rhaegal. “Yes, Jon. I want to see the world how you do – from the back of that great beast. Plus, you said it best – it'll get us to the camp faster then horses.”

Jon was at Rhaegal's side, the dragon having landed just beyond the walls of Winterfell. He was staring towards Sansa curiously, his teeth barred with bits of bloody tissue hanging off them having just devoured some sheep not long before landing.

For her part Sansa felt no fear, being this close to a dragon. Jon was at its side, making sure it knew she was a friend. The beast sniffed at her as she took a few steps forward, its nostrils inhaling deeply as she hesitantly extended a hand to it. “That's it, Sansa,” Jon encouraged her with a smile, “once he gets your scent he'll be used to you.”

Under her arm Sansa clutched the chest Howland Reed had delivered containing the documents proving Jon's birth. They had decided to reveal his heritage to the northern lords already gathered at the camp – of which there were several – and Sansa would announce her plans for their marriage at the same time.

_I won't let them get rid of Jon,_ she resolved. She knew the North would have difficulty accepting someone with Targaryen blood, even if that someone was him – despite all that he had done for them; defending them, protecting them and even forgiving those who had wronged House Stark – ties to Aegon the Conqueror would not be favourable for Jon, and both he and Sansa knew that.

Rhaegal stretched out its neck as he finished sniffing Sansa. “That means he's used to you!” Jon exclaimed, holding out his hand which she took. “Are you ready?”

Sansa nodded, clutching the chest to her side tightly. Within moments Jon had helped her climb up onto Rhaegal's back, Jon sitting in front of her. She wrapped her legs and free arm around him as tightly as she held onto the chest. “Jon...” she whispered, leaning her head on his shoulder, “...I'm ready.”

As the dragon took off from the ground Sansa resisted the urge to scream out, given at how fast the beast was ascending into the air. Her body began to tremble from the sudden change in height as Winterfell hovered below. “Easy, Rhaegal. North!” she heard Jon command as she felt herself being thrust backward from its sudden acceleration.

She held on, her legs still wrapped around Jon's. “Does he always go so fast?!” she screamed at him, the wind whipping into her face and hair. The ground below was a blur of green, blue and white – it was almost like a collage of landscapes as the dragon flew by. The view itself was quite breathtaking, even if frightening for Sansa – she never imagined that a dragon of all things would take roost in the North, even if only briefly.

“You'll get used to it!” was Jon's reply as he turned his head, planting a kiss on her cheek. The wind had begun to die down as the dragon's speed slowed, the ground below still flying past in globs – not blurs – of speed.

_I am actually doing this_ , Sansa told herself. Her hair blew this way and that with some of it obstructing her vision ever so slightly. Her whole body felt weightless, being this high in the air – and out of sheer unfamiliarity her legs clenched tighter around Jon's.

“I was thinking,” Jon added, a relaxed smile upon his face, “our wedding. Would you want it before a heart tree or in a sept?”

“I don't even want a wedding!” Sansa shouted in reply over the rustling of wings. “We've already married, remember?” she teased, biting his cheek gently which caused him to jump with surprise ever so slightly.

“Aye, but we have to do this all official like!”

Sansa laughed, leaning into Jon's shoulder with a contented sigh. _Even up here, on the back of a long dead creature he makes me feel safe._ “You're lucky I love you.”

“Oh, is that a fact?” Jon teased, nuzzling her in reply. “Consider me lucky then!”

* * *

They touched down in the northern camp after almost two hours, Rhaegal crashing to the ground just outside of the main perimeter. The camp was well fortified and stocked, with flaming steaks jutting out of the ground facing towards the Wall, the tents all surrounded by deep trenches lined with arrows and braziers.

“THE KING IN THE NORTH!” came the cry from the soldiers closest to them as they landed, Jon waving at the awestruck men in response. He slid down off Rhaegal with ease, offering a hand to help Sansa down. She hopped her way down, brushing at her dress.

Before she could react further she spied a familiar face emerging from the crowd. “Ser Davos!” she called, smiling as the Onion Knight strolled up, offering a bow. “It's good to see you again!”

“Thank you, m'lady.” he smiled, looking to Jon. “Welcome to the front lines, Your Grace.” he offered with a wink, causing both Jon and Sansa to laugh. “We've prepared as best as we can – as you'll see.”

Sansa had sent Davos to the camp just after Jon was returned to Winterfell to act as their unofficial leader until their King recovered. He lead them through row after row of tents and cookfires, the men bowing or saluting with respect as they passed. The camp was alive with sounds of life – soldiers barking out orders, the clashing of steel against wood as men trained, blacksmiths hammering out shoes for horses and the like.

Twenty thousand Northmen was all that stood in the way of the Others now. And they knew it – many of their faces were awash with fear and anxiety.

Davos lead them to a large command tent where a dozen men had gathered. The various lords and captains of the Houses all rose and bowed in reverence as Jon and Sansa entered. Jon took his seat at the head of the meeting – with him insisting on Sansa sitting beside him.

Sansa placed the chest upon the table, moving aside the various maps to do so. The lords and captains looked to it with curiosity on their faces – even Ser Davos was somewhat taken aback. “What..what is that, Your Grace?” he asked, taking his seat on Jon's left.

Jon looked to Sansa, his face awash with worry. She smiled at him and nodded, brushing a hand against his leg. _You can do this Jon, I am here_. He sighed and placed his hands upon the table, exhaling sharply as he closed his eyes. “New information has been revealed to Sansa and I regarding something that I believe all of you – as lords or the representatives of lords – should hear.”

The young Lord Mazin furrowed his brow. “Is it about the Others, Your Grace?”

“No. This is something...something far more personal for me.” Jon admitted, his face growing downcast.

That was when he told them about what Howland Reed had delivered – the contents of the chest and the truth about his parentage. He talked about how Lyanna Stark was not kidnapped by the Prince of Dragonstone but ran off with him willingly. He explained about how Lyanna came to be at the Tower of Joy and her death – she had died from complications of childbirth, having birthed Jon himself. Finally for those who may not have understood Jon simply stated the facts outright – he was not Ned Stark's bastard son.

He opened the chest before them, pointing out the various documents scattered about. A copy of Lyanna Stark's note to her father – admitting her love for Rhaegar and her willing departure with him – a marriage statement signed by Arthur Dayne and Gerold Hightower, and finally Rhaegar Targaryen's own sworn statement:

>  
> 
> _I, Crown Prince Rhaegar Targaryen, sworn heir to the Iron Throne of Aerys II Targaryen, Second of His Name, King of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, do solemnly swear and affirm the following:_
> 
> _First, that my marriage to Lyanna Stark, Princess of Winterfell was performed validly and willingly on the part of both parties with no measure of force or coercion between them._
> 
> _Secondly, that my marriage to Elia Martell of Dorne has been officially annulled by a Septon anointed in the Faith of the Seven and witnessed herein;_
> 
> _Third, that the unborn child of Lyanna Stark is my lawful and sworn heir, be it a son or daughter._
> 
> _Fourth, that Lyanna Stark was not abducted or defiled by me, Crown Prince Rhaegar Targaryen, in any manner involving force. Princess Lyanna Stark is a willing participant in the events of our relationship and has sworn such below with her signiature as proof._
> 
> _This document is signed in the presence of Ser Arthur Dayne and Lord Commander Gerold Hightower of the Kingsguard, as well as Princess Lyanna Stark herself. Our names and signatures are affixed below:_
> 
>  
> 
> _Rhaegar Targaryen_
> 
> _Lyanna Stark_
> 
> _Ser Arthur Dayne_
> 
> _Lord Commander Gerold Hightower_
> 
> _Septon <illegible> of <illegible> _

After Jon had read the document aloud he passed it around for the assembled to see. They saw the signatures and affixed names – including that of his mother – and the seal binding it; the three headed dragon of House Targaryen.

“There you have it, my lords.” Jon concluded, sinking back into his chair with a depressed sigh. “The truth that Eddard Stark concealed for over twenty years is finally out. I will simply say this – I have no want or desire in the Iron Throne. My place is here – if you will have me.”

* * *

A silence filled the room as the assembled looked uncomfortably to one another. No one seemed to be ready or willing to speak up; the tension was thick enough to cut with a blade. Finally a voice; that of Lord Mazin. “I say it doesn't matter.” he announced, rising gently to his feet. “It does not matter because Eddard Stark raised King Jon as his son. For all intents and purposes, he is Eddard Stark's son, bastard or not. We chose Jon Snow to be the King in the North not because of blood, but because we believe in him.”

The man looked to the other assembled lords and captains before continuing. “When King Jon and Lady Sansa came to Ashwood to ask for my aid, I gave it freely. Because we of the North have always been different to those in the South – loyal to those who have protected, housed, fed and fought for us for eight thousand years, the Starks. But then – rejection after rejection from once loyal bannermen. And what does the King do when the Boltons are cast aside to the ash heap of history? Forgives you for not helping him. And even – when it comes to houses Karstark and Umber – for betraying their oaths.”

He ran a hand through his hair and snorted softly. “So again, my lords. I say it does not matter who's blood runs through our King's veins. He is the man we want as our King. He has lead us through the Long Night thus far, and will continue to lead us through to the end. I say again, Eddard Stark raised Jon Snow as his son – and for all intents and purposes, he is.”

Mazin sat down and nodded towards Jon and Sansa. “House Mazin stands behind you, Your Grace. Now and always.”

“THE KING IN THE NORTH!” someone shouted and at once, everyone rose to their feet and drew their swords, the chants growing louder and louder as they cheered their King. “Blood be damned!” someone shouted.

Sansa smiled at Jon and squeezed his hand tightly. He looked almost in shock, blinking stupidly towards the cheering nobles. “My-my lords,” he called, raising a hand to halt the chant. “Lady Sansa has...has an announcement to make in regards to this.”

Sansa stood up, nodding to the room. “The North knows no King but the King in the North who's name is Stark. This stands true even now with what Jon has learned about his parentage. However – I know that not all of you are the lords of your respective Houses. There will be those who disagree – who fear the 'blood of the dragon', controlling us from the South. I will not give them cause to have that fear.”

She pulled Jon to his feet by the hand she held, squeezing it even tighter as he rose, bewildered. “To ensure that no dissent or criticism of our King will hold any weight over the North again, I announce here and now that I, Sansa Stark – eldest trueborn daughter of Eddard and Catelyn Stark – will wed the King in the next fortnight. With this marriage we will ensure a long and prosperous reign for all Houses in the realm, and defeat the Long Night together and not divided.”

Another cheer of “THE KING IN THE NORTH!” greeted Sansa's announcement, the room alive with energy.

Jon sat down, his face a deep shade of red. Sansa looked at him and leaned over, kissing him gently on the lips as the cheering continued. “Finally,” she whispered to him as they broke apart, “we can be open about our love.”

After the various lords and captains had been dismissed – Jon having prepared a letter to send off to the houses that had not sent their own lords as generals – Ser Davos looked towards Jon with astonishment in his eyes. “By the gods. All this time...” he placed a hand over his mouth.

“Davos...” Jon sighed. “This changes nothing about...about who I am. I'll tell Daenerys that I will renounce all claims to the Iron Throne if that's what it takes.”

The Onion Knight smiled at that, chuckling to himself. “I was only kidding, lad. You're still Jon Snow to me. Though I warn you, when my wife finds out she'll want to meet the 'heir to the throne' herself.”

“Where is your wife, Davos? I haven't seen her since you introduced us at Dragonstone.”

“I told her to remain in White Harbor for the time being. The roads are far too dangerous to travel alone, especially now and especially for a woman. Once things are more settled here she will join me at Winterfell.” he smiled, nodding confidently. “She's a strong woman but even the strongest man or woman is no match for an outlaw with sharp steel.”

“Jon,” Sansa began, having pulled the chest over to where they sat. “There's another letter in here. Addressed to you.” she handed it to him – the paper faded and yellowing, engraved with the direwolf of Stark.

Curiously Jon opened it, beginning to read aloud:

 

> _Dearest Jon,_
> 
> _If you are reading this then you have learned the truth about your parentage from Howland Reed and not from me due to my death. For that, I want to apologize to you for not being there to explain everything in person._
> 
> _I also want to say sorry to you – for every insult that you endured. For every dirty look Lady Stark gave you. For all of the insults that the small-folk or soldiers shot your way about your heritage. For the second-class treatment I myself had to inflict upon you such as seating you away from myself and the rest of the family. Every time I was forced to do that it hurt, do not ever question that._
> 
> _And what is more I am sorry I could not spend time with you as I wanted. You may be angry at me for all of this – and you have the right to be – but I want to say one thing._
> 
> _You asked me when you were on the way to Castle Black if your mother knew about you and if she cared. Now you know the truth about her – about my sister Lyanna. Her last thoughts on this earth were of you, Jon. Her dying wish was to see that you were given a future; a future that if King Robert found out about you would be cut tragically short._
> 
> _Your mother loved you with every bit of her being. I don't doubt that your father Prince Rhaegar loved you with every bit of his being, too – but I was not able to find that out. I also love you with every fibre of my being._
> 
> _You may not be my son by birth, Jon – but I have always and will always think of you as mine. Now as I ride for King's Landing with Sansa and Arya, I have been able to write this letter in case I do not return, knowing what a rat's nest that place is._
> 
> _If all goes well I will be able to reveal this to you after you have taken your vows at the Wall. Robert will never be able to hurt you there. If not – then this letter will hopefully help you find solace in what is something that you may feel devastated about._
> 
> _My words to you were not a lie. You ARE a Stark. You may not have my name, but you have my blood._
> 
> _Now and always._
> 
> _Your father,_
> 
> _Eddard Stark, Warden of the North and Lord of Winterfell_

* * *

Jon placed the letter on the table, his eyes growing wet with tears. “I...” he stammered, the words getting caught in his throat.

“He must have wrote that when we stopped at the Neck..” Sansa whispered, wiping tears away from her own eyes.

Jon nodded, his vision swimming with hot tears. The revelations about his heritage, the reactions from his banner-men, and now this letter...it was all an overwhelming sensation for him. It made him miss his father more.

“We should...we should get back to planning,” Jon choked out, wiping his eyes.

Ser Davos patted his shoulder softly. “If you need anything, Your Grace – you know where to find me.”

“Jon...” Sansa whispered, leaning in to wrap her arms around his waist.

The emotions overwhelmed them both as they cried together, leaning in to each other for warmth as their hands squeezed against each of their bodies as tightly as they were able. “I love you, Jon...” she whispered, crying softly into his neck.

“I love you too, Sansa...” he managed to sob, laying his head on her shoulder.

_I wish you could be here to see how far we've come. I hope you were proud of me at the end, Father._

 


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cersei accepts the fealty of some former foes. Samwell Tarly tries to help a bear.

It was on the Iron Throne, sitting where the greatest of kings had that she felt most alive. She felt her blood rush every time she seated herself upon Aegon's twisted seat of swords, and the feelings were sweeter then any pleasure given to her – by Robert or even Jaime. _And now it is mine. Now and forever._

“Lord Tarly, your service to the realm will not be forgotten.” she smiled, nodding courteously towards the balding man standing before her. He was Randyll Tarly, lord of Horn Hill – and her new Warden of the South. He had been the first to bend the knee to House Lannister following the sacking of Highgarden and he would be rewarded for such.

The man showed no emotion as he bowed to her. “You have my thanks, Your Grace. I will ensure the Reach submits to Lannister rule before long – be it through peaceful means or if I have to burn half the hold-fasts to prove it.” There were of course still certain Houses that rejected her reign – chief among them House Rowan, who had rallied to the Targaryens even after Highgarden – but Cersei knew that in time they would be forced to kneel or suffer the fate of their Tyrell overlords.

Beside the Iron Throne sat Olenna Tyrell, her face stony and firm as she stared ahead. Cersei wanted her close by – so every time she met in the Throne Room she brought the lady of Highgarden with her. She was well guarded – with Gregor Clegane standing watch behind her, ready at any moment to snap her neck like a twig.

“You see, Olenna? Your banner-men now call me their Queen.” she smirked, turning to glance at the Queen of Thorns. _It feels good to gloat,_ Cersei knew firsthand.

“They'll regret that when the dragons come for them.” was her icy reply.

“Oldtown is under siege, Lord Tarly. I want you to join my betrothed in forcing the Hightowers to submit.” Euron's fleet was now anchored in the harbours and keeping out any shipments of food or supplies to the city, but Cersei wanted total conquest – a sea blockade was not enough.

“As you command, Your Grace. I will march our forces to its gates at once. There is one thing I will ask of you.” the man added, his hands folded neatly behind him.

_This should be interesting_. “Yes?”

“My son, Samwell – he is studying at the Citadel. Before he left my home at Horn Hill he stole our Valyrian steel, Heartsbane. I wish to be the first to raid the libraries and find him so I may...discipline him as a father should.” he grumbled, the mere mention of Samwell seeming to anger him.

“Very well, Lord Tarly. I leave the sacking of the Citadel in your capable hands. How many levies have you under control?”

“Forty thousand. Most of the Reach forces struck their banners and marched for home when word of Highgarden's destruction was known.” The resolve of the Reach houses had been shattered with the Tyrells – it would make them much more malleable to Cersei's reign.

She was more then happy to have the Reach kill each other while she simply watched from the sidelines. “Leave at once for Oldtown. I will send word to my betrothed to expect your soldiers.”

The man bowed and departed the room, his delegation following close behind. “Your banner-men are so easily turned, Olenna. Such a shame that the Tyrell name has no one left to carry it on.”

“All because of you,” was the lady's reply, “just kill me already, Cersei. We both know that is what you really want. You've killed my family – finish the job.”

_Oh no my dear – not for a long while yet._ “I do think you are more interest to me alive, dearest lady.” she hummed, snapping her fingers as Qyburn came into view.

“The horn. Anything?” she asked, clearly impatient. The man was a hard worker but had been unable to solve the puzzle of Euron's dragon horn thus far. She needed that mystery solved so as to remove her dear betrothed from the equation before he was able to her.

“I do believe I have some progress made, Your Grace.” her Hand beamed, clasping his hands together. “A simple solution that has been eluding me. What if I were to tell you that I have a way to forge the runes found on the horn? It would be very easy then to replace said horn with a...familiar duplicate.”

_Of course_. Euron was clearly too stupid to tell the difference. All he saw was what he believed in front of him. “Why hadn't we thought of this sooner?” she grumbled.

“It was a matter of being able to duplicate the runes that made the forgery challenging. But no longer.” he chuckled ever so quietly to himself. The plan was simple; while Euron was off plundering and terrorizing Oldtown he had left his flagship the _Silence_ at anchor in King's Landing – heavily guarded, of course. It would be no simple feat to sneak aboard and replace the horn with the carefully crafted fake.

But Qyburn had an endless legion of children skilled in the art of stealth – they would be able to go where no adult could. And given the crew of Euron's ship was composed entirely of mutes with their tongues removed they would not have to worry about detection.

“Get your best little birds ready. We need to make the switch before he returns from Oldtown.”

Qyburn bowed, strolling his way out of the throne room.

* * *

“Are you sure this will work?”

Samwell Tarly shrugged, his body trembling ever so slightly. “Well...I've read that it will. I can't say that it's ever been tried.”

Jorah Mormont grumbled, rolling his eyes. “Fine. But don't tell me I dunked my hand into this stuff for nothing.” Having come to the Citadel not long ago hoping for salvation from his grey-scale Jorah was now being subjected to a rather...unorthodox treatment method from novice Samwell Tarly, a pudgy boy who was training to become the Maester at Castle Black, far in the North.

Tarly had gushed over the fact he'd served Jorah's father Jeor and was the first to volunteer his services to help cure him. As the wet substance dripped off his cracked and scaly hand Jorah took in a deep breath – Sam was going to try and burn off the greyscale with wildfire, of all things.

_It's risky but what else do I have left to try?_ Jorah's right arm up to the elbow had almost been totally consumed by the disease and he was growing desperate. He shoved his arm through the small hole in the steel wall before him; this would keep the wildfire from spreading up his arm and consuming his whole body.

“Do you want some milk of the poppy? I'm sure this will be painful.” Sam offered, smiling nervously.

“No. Just get it over with.” he shot back, his breathing growing slightly ragged.

“Okay...” Sam strolled behind the metal wall and tossed the small candle he held at Jorah's arm.

The pain hit him in an instant, the sensation being as though he was being flayed alive while on fire. It took every ounce of his strength to not scream out, instead biting his lip bloody as he shook, almost collapsing to his knees. Jorah couldn't hear or see anything – his mind was so consumed with pain that he could not manage to use his other senses.

The smell of roasting flesh filled the room and he dry heaved, knowing he was smelling his own arm. “Almost done!” he faintly heard Sam shout as his legs began to shake violently. He could not bear this any longer – he would collapse from the pain if this went on much longer. His vision grew black and cloudy as he began to feel himself giving out...

“Okay! It's finished!”

The smell finally abated, Jorah collapsing to his knees as he heard Sam douse the remains of his arm in a barrel of water. The shock from the cool liquid made him shout, accidentally throwing himself up against the steel.

Spittle and drool ran from his face as Jorah whimpered to himself, his whole body trembling from the experience. He felt light headed and weak as he feebly attempted to get to his feet, stumbling back onto his knees every time.

“Okay, Ser Mormont – you can take your arm out now..” Sam whispered, walking back around to help him up. “You did really well..” the boy whispered encouragingly into his ear.

“W..what other choice did I have?” Jorah managed to croak out, slumping against Sam's girth. His arm – or what was left of it – was almost entirely devoid of flesh; even some of the bones in his hand had begun to melt away. Up to his elbow he was essentially a skeleton, with most of the bones at the very least blackened and at worst, totally charred.

“...great.” he sighed, staring at the remnants of his arm. “What do I do about this now, hmm?” he waved his floppy limb about, causing Sam to yelp and step backwards in fright.

“Well...we could remove the bones and I'm sure, fit you with a nice silver or gold replacement?”

“Fine, we'll -” A sudden crash interrupted their conversation as several fellow novices poured into the testing chamber, shouting and grasping for various scrolls and parchments. Following them was Archmaester Beldin, the shriveled prune squawking about “invaders” who'd battered down the doors to the Citadel not long ago.

“But Archmaester,” Sam walked up to the skeletally thin man, “no one would dare invade the Citadel. It's a bastion of learning and even Euron Greyjoy knows that!”

Jorah laughed, his breath short and haughty. “You think...think they care?” he mumbled, wrapping his arm in the cloth Sam had given him. “Probably going to try and find all those mystical piles of gold the maesters have.”

“If they want treasure I'll need to go to my chambers and hide Heartsbane..” he whispered fearfully. The sword was a family heirloom of House Tarly; Sam had stolen it the last time he and Gilly were at Horn Hill. Gilly was thankfully safely on a boat to White Harbor by now with little Sam having barely escaped the ironborn blockade. _I'm glad I insisted on that much at least._

“No time, Tarly,” Beldin patted his shoulder, “we have to flee -”

The doors to the testing chambers crashed open and a line of soldiers filed in, their spears all locked and pointed at the trio. Sam began to retch, spilling the contents of his lunch all over the marble floor as he knew instantly the sigils lining their armor.

“I knew I'd find you here, boy. Now...take me to the sword and I promise that you'll die quickly.” his father demanded. Randyll Tarly strode forward ahead of the soldiers and glared towards Sam, his eyes narrow and full of hate.

 

 

 


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two fleets launch attacks. People plot and burn and die.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I still feel I suck at writing battles but I hope you all enjoy this one. <3

The Blackwater was alive with the sights and sounds of battle as the fleets of Cersei Lannister and Daenerys Targaryen clashed against one another, fighting for control over the waters just outside King's Landing.

Tyrion had told her all about his victory in a previous battle on these shores against the fleet of Stannis Baratheon – the Usurper's late brother – and so Daenerys was prepared for almost anything that the Queen would throw her way.

But Cersei's plan was simply to crowd the bay with as many ships as she could fit it with and hope for the best. With Euron and her trump card away at Oldtown the onus was on her to defend the capital against her enemies.

“Signal Lord Rowan's flagship and have him send his next wave in,” barked Tyrion to one of the flagmen who began waving his signals into the air. “we're doing very well so far, Your Grace.” he smiled towards her.

The battle had begun well over an hour ago; her fleet sailing in from the the east in three waves. So far the Targaryen fleet had smashed through the Lannister's first line of defence; wrecked hulks of Lannister red and Targaryen black littered the seas, dead bodies and flotsam filling the waters.

Aboard her flagship Daenerys was coordinating the attack with Tyrion, Varys, Grey Worm and Missandei. Lord Rowan had been given command of the Tyrell/Martell ships that remained in the fleet and Yara had the Greyjoy fleet.

Tyrion moved some of the model boats of Daenerys's fleet up overtop of some of Cersei's. “It seems my dear sister is staggering her forces. Trying to keep us off balance.”

“It will not work,” came Grey Worm's reply. “If need be the Unsullied can take the enemy ships by boarding them.”

“We should not push too fast, Your Grace.” came Missandei's warning from her right side. “As Tyrion has said, his sister is willing to use whatever tools she has including the wild-fire to destroy her enemies.”

“Missandei is right,” Tyrion nodded. “I used wildfire to destroy Stannis's fleet once. The screams...they still haunt me even now. And that was a different time.” Daenerys knew that Tyrion was still tormented by the battle he had fought – using only a small amount of wildfire had set the bay alight for hours with green flame.

“We'll take it slowly, then. As long as Theon and his fleet keeps Euron distracted until we've taken the harbor things will be fine.” she nodded, tapping her fingers on the map. “Tyrion – what about Cersei's army? Do we know its strength?”

An explosion from the right interrupted their briefing as one of the Lannister hulks having been set aflame collided with one of her ships, the explosion causing a red glow to permeate her vision as both ships went down in a tangle of debris and screaming men.

Daenerys felt her hands begin to tremble – _is it fear, or anticipation?_ “Once we land on the shores, what next?”

“We'll need to take the Mud Gate. Once we batter it down we will be able to spread through the lower parts of the city including Flea Bottom until we can advance. From there, we repeat that all the way until the Red Keep.” he nodded, sighing softly. “It won't be easy. If my sister is smart – and she has her moments – the battlements will be filled with archers, boiling tar and perhaps wildfire.”

“The Unsullied do not fear.” Grey Worm stated, his voice plain and unwavering.

“Maybe so, but the Unsullied can still die.” Tyrion quipped. Daenerys watched as a green explosion lit up one of her ships, a jar being flung from a catapult on the battlements near the Mud Gate being the perpetrator. She saw the ship burst into flame, sinking rapidly with the screams of agonizing death filling the air. “Well! It looks like my sister is smart after all. Wildfire for everyone.”

She stared into the explosion, watching as the last of the ship disappeared into the fire. Tyrion was barking orders this way and that – something about ships and signalling – but her mind was drawn to the flames. The crackling, the smoke, the faint roaring sound that emanated from the fire. Wildfire was what he father wanted to use to destroy King's Landing so that Robert Baratheon could not rule. It was what Cersei used to destroy the Sept of Baelor and now she was using it to try and destroy her fleet.

_I am not a queen like that. I will be fair but firm. Just but strong. Kind but strict. A Queen for Westeros from the Riverlands to Dorne._

As the flames moved out of view as her ship lurched forward Daenerys brought her gaze to the rapidly approaching shores of the city. She saw the Mud Gate in all it's glory; the wood and stone battlements lined with defenders who were already loosing arrows at the shoreline.

“Begin offloading the boats! We've arrived!” shouted Tyrion as Grey Worm barked commands to the Unsullied, who began to hoist down their skiffs to attack the shore. Daenerys's stomach tightened even more then it already while she stared up at the looming Red Keep off in the distance.

“We're home, My Queen.” Tyrion smiled, standing at her side as the first of the skiffs launched towards the shore.

_Now all we have to do is take it._

* * *

Theon gripped the railing of his ship as tight as he could, his fleet launching another volley of projectiles toward Euron's blockade. The battle was already joined; his two dozen ships versus the several hundred of his uncle's armada.

All around him his crew shouted orders as men manned rigging or fired scorpion bolts towards their enemy. Others carried large buckets of water to varying positions in case of enemy fire while a select few carried the large scorpion bolts to their weapons.

His uncle's fleet was taken by surprise from their attack, their salvo of bolts falling far short of the targets. Theon heard the splashing of water as they slammed into the cool waters uselessly. _We got lucky that time,_ he knew, _but the next time we won't be._

He already saw at least fifty of Euron's ships disengaging from their blockade and moving to intercept. A wry grin came over his features as he shouted for full speed; each of the vessels under his command carried much less then any other Greyjoy ship in the Targaryen fleet – a crew of twenty at most, a small amount of weapons, no food or other amenities such as rowboats or cargo thus allowing his ships to glide through the water much faster then the enemy.

None of the sailors who were aboard the fleet had any illusions about their odds; survival was not something any of them expected at the end of this. But they needed to draw Euron's fleet – and hopefully the Crow's Eye himself – away from the city and towards the open water.

By now Daenerys and Yara would have begun their assault on King's Landing, hopefully taking the harbour with ease and good order. Without Euron's fleet being able to come to Cersei Lannister's aid it would be an easy thing to move through and take the city. That was why it was crucial for the dragon Euron had in his possession – currently flying circles around the Citadel – to remain focused on Oldtown; or more specifically Theon's fleet.

More scorpion bolts sailed passed his ship and landed in the water as a second line of ships broke from the blockade, rushing to join the first in giving chase. _The more ships we pull off his fleet the better,_ Theon grinned. It would increase the odds of Euron noticing and joining the battle himself.

“Bank hard to port!” Theon shouted as the ship lurched to its side roughly, almost throwing several men overboard. This was part of the plan – lead as much of the fleet in circles around the harbour as possible. It would likely enrage his uncle that so many ships were being wasted in an attempt to destroy a paltry number such as this, knowing how dangerous and hot-headed Euron Greyjoy was.

A screeching roar went up from the air as Theon watched the dragon begin flying towards the harbour – likely investigating why so many ships had suddenly broken from the blockade without orders. This is it, Theon knew. The halls of the Drowned God await us today.

He had been many things in his life. Murder, traitor, coward, slave, eunuch. But finally at the end of his life he would be able to become the man he was meant to be – a son of Pyke.

_What is dead may never die, but rises again harder and stronger._

* * *

 

Euron banked his dragon hard towards the harbor, watching as over a hundred ships sailed after a handful of others. What was going on down there? _Why is my fleet disobeying me?!_ He'd left specific instructions for the fleet to hold and not break at any cost – no matter how many arrows, stones or pitch jars the Hightower defenders threw at them.

But ships...who would dare? The vast majority of the Reach's ships were either away with Daenerys or sailing to Dorne to reinforce the invasion, having submitted to House Lannister and the Iron Throne after Highgarden. Euron whipped the chain wrapped about Viserion's neck harder as the dragon increased its speed, now soaring over the remaining ships blockading the ports.

“DOWN!” Euron roared as the beast dropped, going so low to the water that he could see the sails on the enemy ships. They were the kraken of Greyjoy just as his were.

Yara, he knew immediately. _My sweet and foolish niece – attacking my blockade with so few ships?_ He counted perhaps two dozen, if that – lightly armed frigates by the looks of them. As he brought Viserion back into the air he could not help but laugh. Part of him admired her bravery, being so daring and reckless to think of such a stupid manoeuvre.

The other part of him condemned her for the stupid girl she was – no woman would ever sit the Salt Throne and such a stupid manoeuvre proved why. The ships were moving much faster then his own; likely due to having almost nothing loaded aboard. Euron had used the same tactic during his days in the Sunset Sea to avoid fellow pirate vessels.

Of course, none of those pirates had dragons.

“DRACARYS!” he howled, the beast belching fire at the nearest ship, engulfing its mast and fore-deck in scorching flames. The screams of the dead and dying crew was like music to his ears. His brother Balon had once called him “some sort of twisted musician” during a brief period when he had taken up the lute.

_I am a musician, brother. And death is my melody._

As the dragon soared along side the attacking fleet it sprayed its sweet music aboard a half-dozen decks. Perhaps some of his own ships had been caught in the blast, but it did not matter. Euron had five hundred ships blockading Oldtown; he could afford to lose a few.

The remaining ships not burning had halted their course and began to come about, seemingly to make a final stand. Euron laughed as a few scorpion bolts came towards him, falling far short of Viserion as he banked left, the bolts flying into the air uselessly.

“Fine, let's finish this! DRACARYS!”

Viserion's flame consumed the last of the enemy fleet in a terrifying large gout of fury. Euron could almost feel the heat radiating towards him as the beast continued to exhale, the screams and shouts of the crews filling the air over the smoke.

He felt his breeches harden as he listened to the sight, the smell of searing flesh and scorched timbers only making his arousal even more intense.

_I am truly what they say I am – an evil, evil man. And I love it._

 


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Petyr Baelish tries to salvage his situation.

Petyr Baelish read over the message that had just arrived at Winterfell – it was bearing the sigil of House Stark meaning that it travelled from the northern camp where the King and Sansa were. He read it over again and then one more time to be sure of the information that it spoke of. A look of disbelief creased his face as for the first time in over twenty years, he found himself gawking with his mouth agape.

Jon Snow was not Eddard Stark's bastard son – but Lyanna Stark and Rhaegar Targaryen's son and lawful heir to the Iron Throne. Rhaegar had anulled his marriage to Elia Martell before his death – but the King in the North was renouncing all claims he had to the throne and would remain as the northern leader so long as the various Houses would have him.

What shocked him most of all was the last bit of the letter that he almost missed, being too busy gaping at the previous contents:

_Furthermore King Jon will now announce his betrothal to his Cousin by birth Sansa Stark, the Lady of Winterfell. Further marriage details will be discussed upon the successful defence of the North against the threat of the Others._

_Long may he reign._

His mind swam with a myriad of thoughts – rage, anger, shock – and fear. All this time, Eddard Stark had been playing the game unknown to even himself. Everything that Baelish had worked for; his ambitious rise in the court of Robert Baratheon, his betrayal and execution of Ned Stark, his subtle grooming and training of Sansa...even his intervention in the North's war against House Bolton. It had all become for naught because of one bastard boy and a secret kept for twenty years.

Crumpling up the note Baelish raced out of his chambers, briskly walking towards the Great Hall. His mind was a mess, rampant with anxiety and dread – but he had to maintain the facade of power that had kept him alive, especially in those early years.

* * *

Inside the Hall he found Bran and Arya in discussions with a haggard and rough looking man and a fair, pale and shivering woman. He bowed his head in respect as he ambled in, offering a kind smile to the young lord and lady. “I apologize for my absence, Lord and Lady Stark. It seems I interrupted your meeting with...”

Arya looked to Baelish, a scowl on her face but said nothing. Bran smiled and waved him to a seat. “Our uncle, Edmure Tully. You remember him, don't you Lord Baelish?”

How could he forget little Edmure? He'd grown up in Riverrun with the boy. He was always adventurous, headstrong and loved to be the center of attention for his father. “How could I forget. It has been too long, Edmure.” he smiled.

For his part Edmure nodded, his hands folded on the table as he shivered uncontrollably under a blanket. “Forgive my husband, Lord Baelish. I'm Roslin. Roslin Tully.” the woman smiled shyly at him.

“I must say it is a surprise to see the Lord of Riverrun and his wife here in the North.”

Bran nodded, waving to the guard at the door. “We can explain that, I think.” The guard escorted a man garbed in red and black Lannister armor into the hall, the man appearing haggard – shivering ceaselessly – but unharmed. “I do apologize ser, but I forget your name.”

“Addam. Ser Addam of House Marbrand. I am a sworn vassal to Ser Jaime Lannister.” the man nodded, bowing his head as he wrapped the furs around his chest tighter. “Apologies, Lord Stark. T-the North does not seem to agree with me.”

“Ser Addam tells us a very interesting story. Apparently Edmure and his wife – along with their child, who is sleeping peacefully with a nurse – were meant to go to Casterly Rock to serve as hostages. Instead, Ser Jaime let them free and sent them north to escape such a fate.” Bran stated as he shuffled in his seat.

“How...generous.” Baelish responded dryly.

“I was at the Twins,” Arya interjected, glaring towards Edmure. “I heard them talk about how he surrendered Riverrun and got his uncle – the Blackfish killed. Why should we welcome him here? He betrayed our family.”

Edmure's face flushed whiter then it was as he gazed to the floor, unable to look at the Starks. “I...I only did what I had to in order to protect my family. The Lannisters, they came to..to Riverrun when I was there. The Freys were threatening to hang me on a daily basis.”

Roslin wrapped her arms around him tighter and kissed him softly on the cheek. “They said if I did not yield the castle and...and give Uncle Brynden to them, they would kill my wife and son. I...I couldn't sacrifice my family for a castle.” he sobbed, his face wet with tears.

“Arya, please.” Bran chided, reaching out and grasping her hand. “Uncle Edmure made the choice any of us would. He loves his family and they need us, especially now. You can't say if you were offered Father's life in exchange for Winterfell that you wouldn't consider it.”

“...I suppose that makes sense.” she conceded, sighing audibly. “I'm...I'm sorry to have snapped at you, Uncle. I've – we've lost so much already that it's hard to think about sometimes.”

“No...no, you're right.” Edmure sniffed, smiling weakly at them. “I'm the last Tully. My father, mother, sisters, uncles...all dead. How do you think I feel?”

“You are not the last Tully, Edmure,” Roslin whispered, offering him a cloth to wipe his eyes. “little Hoster is healthy and strong, just like you. He will make us proud.”

“The three of you are welcome here as long as you need succor.” Bran nodded towards Arya, who smiled. “Ser Addam, if you wish to return to the south I will send some soldiers to escort your party.”

The knight nodded, teeth chattering away. “I appreciate that, Lord Stark. As much...as much as I am awed by the beauty of your land, it's a bit too cold for my liking.”

_Oh, this is so dull_ , Baelish rolled his eyes as he tapped on the table impatiently. He had to do something to fend off the growing anxiety he felt thanks in large part to the collapse of his carefully constructed ladder. The Knights of the Vale were supposed to be his trump card, the method that the North used to defeat the Others. Instead most of them were dead or dying in the frozen north, the Others having seized everything above Karhold.

And now to find out that the King was a secret Targaryen who would be wedding Sansa, the woman that Petyr had worked so hard to mould into his? _A picture of me, on the Iron Throne – with you by my side..._

His mind closed out the sounds of the outside world. He watched as Edmure and Roslin were lead away to their new chambers and Arya and Bran began to speak – but his mind was refusing to hear them. He was too focused on Sansa and all he had done. Every step in his plan from the moment he had first laid eyes on her was to do what he could not with dear Catelyn.

He had manipulated events carefully to ensure the naivete of the Stark women was stripped away, bit by bit until only an empty shell remained. A shell that he was able to work as though a sculptor, crafting the new Sansa Stark little by little until she was his, body and soul. Even after his miscalculation involving Ramsay Bolton had caused her to foster a deep hatred for him Petyr had not given up.

She would need him. Enough of a fostering tension between siblings would have sent Sansa running into his arms. She would be Queen of the North – and Petyr would rule by her side. From there, the world was limitless for them. He would make the Iron Throne his – and Sansa Stark would sit beside him, finally giving him everything he had wanted since he'd left Riverrun as a skinny young boy.

But now everything had fallen to pieces. _Ned Stark is laughing at me from beyond the grave._ He cursed the man – stupid, foolish, blind Ned – only he had been smarter then anyone had given him credit for. He had played a long con game of his own for twenty odd years and _won._

“Lord Baelish?” the sound of his name snapped Petyr from his reverie. Bran had his eyes fixated upon him, studying his face with curiosity.

“Apologies, Lord Stark. Simply..digesting all that has happened. You have received the raven from King Jon about his parentage, I presume?” he offered, wondering how the siblings would take the news of this revelation. _Perhaps there was still hope..._

“Oh, yes. Well, you see my lord – we've known about it for a long time.” Arya smiled, her face contorting in a way that made Petyr uneasy.

“It's hard to explain to someone who couldn't understand, so we'll have to help you understand.” Bran snapped his fingers and Petyr yelped as one of the Free Folk – Jon had left a dozen or so behind to act as guards – grabbed him and pinned his arms behind his back.

“Bring him to the godswood.” Bran nodded as Arya helped him onto his sled.

* * *

Petyr crashed to the ground, the hard and snow covered foliage staining his outfit and hurting his knees. Trying feebly to rise to his feet he felt himself smashed down by a boot on his back – likely from the wildling – and he stopped moving, craining his head to look at Bran, who was seated by the tree.

“I don't understand -”

Bran nodded and the wildling forced Petyr forward, almost throwing him into the rock where Bran sat. He then felt a hand being pressed against bark. “Don't struggle, Lord Baelish. This will make it easier for all of us.” he urged, a sympathetic smile on his face.

Bran touched his hand to Petyr's body and it was then that he knew – that everything he'd ever said or done here in the North; from Jon to Sansa to Bran and Arya – was all for nothing. He watched as he betrayed Ned Stark, how he tried to seduce Sansa with whispers of power, how he killed Lysa Arryn back in the Eyrie. And beside him the whole time was Bran.

“It's called green-sight. It's an ancient power gifted to some by the old gods. The Children of the Forest know more then I do but...they're gone, sadly. I can see events in the past. I can even bring people into these visions with me.” the boy explained to a stammering Petyr.

“We know what you've done. We know it was you who betrayed our father. We know how you tried to spread lies to weaken us. How you...you've become so obsessed with Sansa.” Bran shuddered, frowning with disgust.

“I...” Petyr croaked, finding that no words would come to him now. “M...make it end. Please...” he whimpered, pleading to stop the constant barrage of his past; now it was showing him instruct Lysa on how best to poison her husband.

The visions mercifully did end and he found himself back on the ground in the godswood, Bran staring at him from his seat. “We've known for a long time. About Jon. About you.” he finished as he turned his head away. “Without your Knights you are nothing.”

The last thing Petyr Baelish felt was the sensation of cold steel against his neck before his lifeblood began to spill from his throat.

_Chaos is a ladder..._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sure some of you might disagree with me for choosing this to be Petey's coup de grace but I felt it would be poetic for Bran's green-sight to expose him to Arya and Sansa and Jon for who he really is. Almost a sort of mea culpa for the man and his many, many crimes against House Stark. Anyway, I hope you guys enjoy either way. <3


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon meets with Davos, Tormund and Sansa for strategy. Sansa and Jon then have a more private meeting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: SMUT APPEARS IN THE SECOND HALF. TURN BACK NOW IF YOU DON'T ENJOY TENT TABLE SEX.

The horizon beyond the flaming steaks and trenches set up at the camp's perimeter was nothing but fog, the mist having consumed everything in the path of the Others and their minions. Jon knew that things were growing bad – reports had come in that everything north of Karhold had fallen – yet the speed of the advance was still hard to fathom.

Looking about the steaks and trenches he saw a few bodies of wights scattered about. So far there had only been a handful of sorties launched against the host; a few dozen wights at most with every attack. _They're testing us_ , Jon knew.

As he paced the perimeter Jon's mind wandered to the Wall – to the onslaught of the Night King and his massive army. Why was he waiting? From the ravens they'd received even the force besieging Last Hearth was barely making any effort. He knew what the power of the Others could do, when it was truly harnessed – they had been able to destroy a structure that stood for eight thousand years.

Shaking his head Jon sighed, beginning to trudge back towards his tent. All around him soldiers shouted and cheered their King and he stopped to shake hands along the way. Is this how Father felt? The North had loved Eddard Stark – even now long after his death they remembered him fondly.

Now they were passing their feelings onto him. He heard the whispers – that he was Eddard Stark reborn, the greatest swordsman alive today, and so on – but he tried to push them to the back of his mind as best he could. Jon was never a man to worry about gossip and idle talk; instead, he focused on the main thing that always chewed at his mind – making sure that when the sun rose there was a North left to defend.

* * *

 

Reaching his tent he entered to find Sansa, Tormund and Davos all gathered around the table, eating. Tormund bellowed at him and waved to his seat at Sansa's side. “JON SNOW! Join us, will you? Stop looking so fucking sad.”

Tormund and his Free Folk had marched with the northern host as well – despite Jon's reluctance to send the last of the warriors away, Tormund had insisted on fighting. As he took his seat Sansa smiled at him, wrapping her hand around his.

The meal in front of them was a simple roasted chicken with bread and sweet potatoes. Jon took a small helping and began to eat, while Tormund devoured messily and Davos ate quietly.

“So, you're a Targar-whats it too? Explains the dragon,” he grinned, belching. “Davos here told me.”

Jon nodded, a smirk playing about his face. “By blood, yes. But in all other aspects I am of the North.”

“Course ya are! I don't see you shitting out fire with that kneeler bitch down south.” Tormund shrugged, chewing down another helping of meat, “sides, I already told ya – the Free Folk don't follow someone based on their blood. We follow someone based on who they are!”

“We've gotten more replies to your announcement, Your Grace.” Davos announced, swallowing down the last of his plate, “Most of the responses are simple affirmations of loyalty and congratulations on your engagement, but...”

“But?” Sansa raised a brow.

“There are a few houses that disapprove of your union. They think it unnatural to marry someone who up until recently was considered your sister. They liken it to the Lannisters and their incest.” he admitted, shuffling in his seat uncomfortably.

That made Jon furious and he slammed his fist into the table. “We're nothing like the fucking Lannisters, Davos!” he shouted, bits of food spilling from his mouth.

“Jon, relax...” Sansa patted his arm softly. “Tell these skeptics of Jonnel Stark, our ancestor. He married his niece – his _niece_ – and there was no complaint or word of treason then.” she spat, rolling her eyes in annoyance.

“They aren't brother and sister, though!” Tormund gulped down a mug of ale. “So who gives a shit?”

“I agree with you,” Davos nodded, “but there are still those in the North who see it as just one step above incest.”

Sansa knew that there would be opposition. It did not surprise her at all that there would be whispers about the Lannisters in comparing their situation. None the less she was not going to allow anyone to question her or Jon's loyalty to the North or each other. She had given herself wholly to him – and he wholly to her.

“Let them talk. Again, tell them of Jonnel Stark and remind them of their oath to our house. The marriage will solidify Jon's title as King. As the man THEY chose.”

Jon smiled towards her, his anger beginning to ebb. “Aye. She's right...as always, Davos. Now, what news about the war?”

“Lady Karstark sends word that Karhold has been cut off from the rest of the North by a horde of wights on their doorstep. She has evacuated as many smallfolk as possible through the mountains down to the coast thanks in part to the Manderlys and their ships, but it will take time.”

Jon nodded, biting down on his lip. Karhold was one of the most isolated castles in the region – and even travelling down the mountains was treacherous; there were only a few small footpaths to use and one could easily get lost or plunge to their death. _Every northman that falls gives the Night King one more soldier._ “Send word to White Harbour that I want more ships sent to Karhold.”

“Davos, Tormund. Could you give Jon and I a moment?” Sansa's voice commanded firmly. The two men looked at one another before they left the room leaving the pair alone.

* * *

Sansa rose to her feet and gestured for Jon to do the same. Curiously he did so as he looked to her – only to be met with her lips crashing against his, her hands running up and down his tunic and fumbling with the buttons.

Their tongues clashed as Jon lifted Sansa up onto the table her hands ripping his tunic open as he did so. He felt her soft hands run against his chest, leaving gentle and teasing scratches as she went. They broke their kiss only for Sansa to begin biting at his neck, causing Jon to let out a throaty moan of pleasure and surprise.

His hands quickly ran up her dress as she spread her legs for him, pulling her silken small-clothes down around her ankles. As quickly as he'd done that his hands unlaced his breeches and pulled out his cock, hard and throbbing painfully. Sansa moaned into his ear as she let one hand down to stroke it, her hips bucking against Jon's own ever so roughly.

She was dripping wet, he knew; her nectar had already started pooling underneath her on the table. “I need it, Jon...now...” she whispered huskily.

Jon obliged, slamming into her with a powerful and resounding thrust. Sansa moaned in delight and gripped his back, her nails digging deep into his flesh. They returned to kissing one another as Jon fucked her faster and faster, his cock being enveloped by her soaking wet womanhood. The emotions in the air were raw; lust and love, want and need. Jon relished in it as he continued his assault on Sansa, causing her to whine and whimper in pleasure while they kissed.

The table creaked and groaned as the lovers joined, Sansa's hips bucking as her first orgasm struck her, causing her to break the kiss and bite down on her lower lip to stop from screaming. He felt her walls clench around his cock – and he nearly came there and then. She felt so good, his wife and Queen.

“Sansa...” Jon whined, feeling the boiling need at the base of his cock. She responded by clamping down on his neck hard enough to draw blood. It was painful but at the same time it aroused him even further while he grunted, his legs tiring out from thrusting so hard and fast.

“I'm close, Jon...” she growled, nipping at his neck further, “more...” Jon renewed his efforts and was rewarded with another cock-clenching orgasm from Sansa's walls, this one causing her to shout ever so briefly before she covered her mouth to stop it.

Jon couldn't take anymore. The need in his body was so great – he needed to spend. And spend he did, a husky cry that he shouted into Sansa's shoulder announced it as he spent inside of her, the waves of pleasure threatening to overwhelm his senses.

As they came down from their brief yet intense encounter Jon looked to Sansa, who was panting furiously and trying to pull her small-clothes back up and laughed. “This is a first...” he mumbled, stuffing his cock back into his breeches.

“Never...never done it in a tent?” she smirked, smoothing out her dress the best she was able. “We'll have to try different ones after this war is done.” she panted, giggling in return.

“I love you, Sansa.” Jon smiled, collapsing into his chair from the intensity of both his orgasm and the pain in his legs from the thrusts. “Always...always have.”

She hopped off the table, licking her lips. “And I you, Jon. But you knew that already.” she teased, sauntering out of the tent leaving him alone.

Jon exhaled and let out a short chuckle. Suddenly things felt far more optimistic then they had before.

_Though it could just be from the orgasm._

 

 


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Samwell tries to survive his father's wrath.

Sam was forced out of the shattered doors with a cry, landing on the stone steps in front of him. His body ached from the impact but yet he quickly got to his feet, his father's soldiers pointing their spears toward him. Behind them came Ser Jorah who was also restrained – with a soldier having shackled his remaining hand to the soldier's own.

Oldtown was partially aflame, with ruined buildings and rubble lining it's once pristine streets as a result of Euron Greyjoy's constant dragon attacks. Sam saw banners emblazoned with the lion of Lannister mixed with the huntsman of Tarly adorning the streets.

Soldiers were everywhere, both Lannister and Tarly – with a few of the Greyjoy soldiers thrown in for good measure. Many of them were simply manning guard posts or patrolling but some of them were in the process of looting many of the trashed and deserted inns and homes along the row as Sam was lead away.

Yet he couldn't understand. Why would the Tarlys be working with House Lannister? Sam had heard of the Greyjoy sack of Highgarden – the seat of House Tyrell whom his father had sworn allegiance. “I never thought I would see Tarly soldiers marching with Lannister ones...” he mumbled.

His father had walked up next to him, surveying the streets below. “House Tyrell is dead, stupid fool. Queen Cersei has offered House Tarly the Wardenship of the South in exchange for our taking of this shit pile of a city.” Randyll Tarly barked, shoving Sam forward as they began to walk anew.

A foul odor filled the air as Sam spied soldiers burning the dead, many of whom were smallfolk. The sounds of battle were also heard in the din; the faint cry of dying men and the clashing of steel. “This way,” Sam mumbled glumly as he lead the troops down towards the Broken Wheel Inn where Gilly and little Sam were staying. He wrote to them on a weekly basis when he found the time – and thankfully Gilly did not hold any resentment against him for changing their plans so sharply.

“Did you honestly think you could get away with it?” his father again grumbled. “To steal the pride of my House and get away unscathed?”

“You'll have your bloody sword back soon!” Sam snapped as he glared towards his father's hateful eyes. That earned him a hard slap across the face causing him to recoil, blood spilling from his mouth.

“That is not the point! The point is that you, a fat slovenly craven – thought to deceive ME.”

“If it wasn't for your son here I would be dead,” came Jorah's hoarse voice from the back of the column. That got Randyll's attention – he turned and marched up to the Mormont. 

“And who are you?” he demanded.

“Jorah Mormont of Bear Island,” he began, “and it was your son who saved my life. He's a smart, talented young man.”

“What would you know about him?” Tarly snarled, shaking his head. “He has disappointed House Tarly since the day he was born! Sons of my house should be strong fighters – instead, what is he? A soft fool unworthy to be a jester at Horn Hill.”

“I just see a bitter old man who puts his precious sword above his own family.” Jorah retorted, smirking towards Sam. His father ignored the insult and gestured the column forward.

They arrived at the Broken Wheel shortly after, the street it was on untouched by fighting. Halting outside of the door Sam nodded, pointing to a window on the second level. “Gilly's room is up there. I've...I put Heartsbane in the chest by the bed.”

"Keep him here.” Randyll commanded as he stormed into the inn while drawing his blade. The sounds of shouting and cries of fright permeated the air as Sam quivered with fear. _Would he kill Adra, the innkeep? Maron, the travelling bard? Even the tavern wenches?_

His father was a harsh, unrelenting man – but Sam had never known him to want to kill civilians, especially without cause. Still his mind swam with anxiety and dread, not for himself but for Gilly and the others – it was clear that Randyll Tarly hated Gilly due to her wildling heritage. Would he go so far as to hurt her to spite Sam?

 A few moments later he emerged from the Inn, Gilly running behind him, Little Sam in her arms. “Sam!” she shouted, stopping in front of him, “What have they done to you?”

“Shove off, girl.” Randyll commanded, holding Heartsbane triumphantly in his dominant hand. A cold smirk danced upon his lips as he stared at the sword with reverent awe.

“You have your stupid sword!” she cried, patting the sobbing babe softly on his back, “let Sam go!”

Instead Randyll brought the blade to Sam's neck, causing him to piss his breeches with fear. The edge of the Valyrian steel nicked ever so slightly into his skin, drawing blood. “And why should I? This wretch, this...pestilence...has done nothing but bring dishonor to me with every breath he draws.”

* * *

“Father! Stop this!” came a youthful sounding voice. Sam dared not look towards the source but he heard the footsteps dashing towards them. His brother Dickon emerged into his view garbed in the armour of a Tarly soldier. A look of concern was plastered upon his face.

“Sam is my brother. He is your son -”

“He is a disgrace!” Randyll shot back, glaring angrily at his heir. “Why would you speak for him, Dickon? He has always stood in your way.”

“It was Sam who helped me when I struggled. It was Sam who encouraged me to keep...to keep training and fighting while he read. All in secret, of course.” Dickon shoved a trembling hand behind his back.

“Yet he could not accomplish those things himself! He resisted my every attempt to make a man of him! He has the potential to ruin this House if he lives -”

Sam shook his head. “For pity's sake Father, I am in the Night's Watch! I am not a member of House Tarly anymore! I renounced my land and titles just as you threatened.” he barked, his mind clouding over with rage.

“Father, listen to me.” Dickon pleaded, placing his free hand on their father's arm. “Do you want to be known as a kinslayer? If you kill Sam that's what you will be. Then it won't matter what you do for the family – you'll have ruined your legacy in one fell swoop of that blade.”

Randyll growled, grinding his teeth together sharply. Sam closed his eyes and braced for the end.

...but it did not come. Instead he heard the sound of Heartsbane being sheathed. As he opened his eyes he found his father staring towards him, still with the same hateful glare upon his face. “I never want to see you, your wildling whore, or that bastard ever again. Do you understand me?”

“Yes. Perfectly.”

“Cut them loose. We ride for the main host within the hour. Move!” he barked as the soldiers began to file away, Jorah being cut free from his jailer. Sam continued to tremble as he collapsed to his knees, Gilly and Mormont comforting him.

“Sam..” Dickon spoke, his voice soft and apologetic. “I'm..I'm sorry. For how all this turned out.”

“You'll make our family proud, Dickon. I always knew you would.” he smiled, tears bubbling over in his eyes. “Go. You don't want Father to be angry with you.”

* * *

Jorah helped Sam to his feet, the one armed man being surprisingly strong despite his pale appearance. “Come on. We have to get you and your family out of the city.” he said, nodding to Gilly.

“And go where? We just arrived.” Sam sighed, rubbing the blood off his neck from the small cut.

“Where did you come from?”

“The Wall. Castle Black, more specifically. I needed to become a maester to replace Aemon.” Sam exhaled sharply. “I promised Jon that I would go through with this and make the Watch proud.”

“Fuck the maesters. Come with me to Dragonstone. We need learned men like you in the Khaleesi's court.” Jorah smiled, patting Sam's shoulder. “Oh, and change your pants. You, ah -”

“Pissed myself. Yeah, thanks for the reminder.”

 


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daenerys treats with Queen Cersei.

Daenerys kept her eyes fixated upon the distant Red Keep on the horizon. _There sits my goal_ , she knew. The seat of her forefather Aegon the Conqueror – the Iron Throne and rule of the Seven Kingdoms. First though, she had to fight to get it.

Her forces had taken the Mud Gate around Blackwater Bay after hours of fierce fighting. The walls overlooking the water were now manned by Unsullied, Dothraki and Tyrell forces flying the three-headed dragon, having cast the lion banner aside.

There was still much to do before she even set foot anywhere near the Red Keep – the rest of the city was utterly packed with Lannister soldiers and members of the City Watch who hadn't fled, with barricades and barriers set up down every street, even down into the slums of Flea Bottom. None the less, Tyrion had told her that it would be easier going now with the Mud Gate having been secured. She now was able to bring in the remaining ground troops from the bay without risk of further attack.

With her Hand and Lord Rowan by her side Daenerys waited for the arrival of Queen Cersei. The Lannister forces garrisoned just up the road had sent word that she'd wished a parley with the Dragon Queen – an offer she was more then happy to oblige.

“I will warn you my Queen – unlike the Masters of Slaver's Bay my sister is far more cunning and ruthless then they. Do not underestimate her.” Tyrion warned, his eyes reflecting concern.

Daenerys knew that Tyrion always spoke the truth – he knew Cersei and his family far better then she ever could hope to. “I know what kind of an evil person your sister is,” she responded coldly, “I do not intend for her to manipulate or trick me. Rest assured.” she patted his shoulder in an attempt to reassure him.

“M'lady!” came a shout from the battlements, “Lannister party approaching.”

She inhaled sharply in an attempt to clear her head of any unwanted thoughts; if the gods were good she would be able to convince Cersei to stand down and answer for her crimes. _But the gods are not good – we have to make our own outcomes._ “Let them in.”

The scraping of wood and metal filled the air as her men slid the barricade leading off to Maker's Row aside, the Lannister delegation filing in on their horses, red armour shining in the sun. The palanquin bearing the Queen came up behind the mounted escort, two of the Kingsguard – including one obscenely large man – marched beside it.

Cersei Lannister was an unassuming woman, Daenerys observed. The Queen was garbed in a simple black dress, the neckline tight fitting and minimalist around her body. She had emblazoned the Lannister lion on one sleeve but otherwise looked as a lady or a countess would – not as a monarch.

* * *

The woman took a few steps forward and stared impassively towards Daenerys. “So. The famous Dragon Queen has finally come home.” she observed, a small smirk playing at the corner of her lips, “I'd throw you a welcoming feast but I'm afraid we're rather busy.”

“As are we, Your Grace.” Daenerys took a few steps forward, pursing her lips together. “I must say, Tyrion paints a far more fearsome picture of you then what I see standing before me. He makes you sound almost...dare I say, demonic?”

Her Hand sauntered up beside her, shrugging. “Hello, dear Cersei. It's been a long time, hasn't it?”

“Ah, Tyrion. Of course you would be the fingers inside the Dragon Queen's cunt,” Cersei scowled, folding her arms to her chest. “You should know, Lady Targaryen – this creature is a monster. He sold my daughter to Dorne as though she were a common whore. Murdered my son and stole away from here – though not before killing our father.” Her voice was full of venomous hatred.

“And you blew up the Sept of Baelor with wildfire.” Tyrion retorted, his fists clenched angrily, “how does that make you any better then I? I sent Myrcella to Dorne to keep her safe. I had nothing to do with Joff's death. But yes, I killed our vile father. And I would do so again.”

Daenerys raised a hand. “Enough! I am not here to discuss your many family issues. I am here to receive your surrender, Queen Cersei.” _We have no time for these bickerings!_

In response her opponent laughed, the sound arrogant and haughty. “Oh, dearest lady – I have not laughed that hard since my husband's death.” she wiped a few imagined tears from her face. “I don't believe you understand the gravity of the situation before you.”

“What situation would that be?” Daenerys folded her hands together as she kept her composure. The woman was clearly trying to irritate her – to get a rise from her, to wake the dragon as Targaryens were known for. “I have one hundred thousand men knocking at your door. You have – what, thirty thousand if that to defend you? Surrender peacefully – lay down your crown and strike your banners – and I can promise you a fair trial.”

“A fair trial. Hmm.” Cersei nodded, her brows furrowing ever so slightly. “A generous offer in your mind I'm sure – but what does that entail for me? Let us dispense with the lies. Woman to woman. You'll execute me after my fair trial.”

“It is more then you deserve,” Tyrion spat, glaring towards her. “Tommen, dead because of you. The Tyrells, our uncle Kevan, even poor stupid Lancel – dead because of YOU. All because you refused to face the music and admit your mistakes.”

“You should know that I will do anything to punish my enemies, Tyrion.” Cersei waved a hand towards her escort as a man in black robes shuffled forward. “This is Qyburn, who serves as my Hand.”

* * *

“A pleasure to meet the famous Daenerys Targaryen,” the older man smiled, bowing his head ever so slightly. “We have heard much of you here in King's Landing, to be sure.”

“I know this...this creature, Your Grace.” Lord Rowan sputtered from her right side. “He was a maester at the Citadel in Oldtown until they stripped him of his chain for his experiments. They say he was delving into the arts of necromancy and black magic.”

“Oh, nothing as base as THAT, I assure you.” he shrugged, “now, then. As you are well aware Lord Tyrion, the late Aerys Targaryen had hundreds if not thousands of bottles of wildfire placed all around the city. Under the Red Keep, beneath Flea Bottom, the Sept of Baelor...and so on. Many of those caches are still present – and my little birds know where they are and how to set them alight.”

Daenerys kept her exterior composure but inside she cried out with barely concealed rage. The dragon within her roared to break loose and wreak havoc upon the woman and her lackeys but she held back. It was one of the first things she'd learned made a good ruler; someone unlike her father. Unlike Cersei.

“Your father once told my brother that he meant my late husband Robert to rule over a kingdom of ashes. I now make the same offer to you, my lady.” Cersei smiled wickedly towards her. “If you step one foot beyond the Mud Gate I will give the orders to detonate every cache of wildfire in this city. There will be nothing left for you to occupy, assuming that any of you survive the explosions.”

“If you do this, you'll die too, dear Cersei.” Tyrion noted, his voice hard as nails. “As much as it would bring me great joy, you won't be able to fight your precious war any longer.”

“I will deny you the city. I will deny the monster who calls himself my blood the city. I will not let anyone – ANYONE – take my city from me. I have sacrificed for over twenty years to get where I am today.” she narrowed her eyes toward Daenerys. “I will not allow some jumped up bitch with dragons take away what I earned.”

“You've earned nothing, Lady Cersei.” Daenerys smiled, her face twitching with fury. “You have built an empire on the blood and ashes of your people. Empires built in such a manner do not last very long. I know from experience.”

“We will see, little Queen. We will see.” she spat and returned to her palanquin. Before long the Lannister escort had moved off beyond the barricade, trudging its way back to the Red Keep.

* * *

 

 


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime and Bronn arrive at Dragonstone and await their fate.

The obsidian walls of Dragonstone loomed in the horizon, the sharp black stone sticking out as if a sore thumb among the green hills of the Stormlands. Jaime brought his horse to a halt and stared out at the castle. Beside him Bronn trotted up and whistled appreciatively.

“Now that is a beauty of a castle. I'd be happy with it.” he quipped, shooting a smirk his way.

“I'm sure you would, but it's spoken for by Daenerys and my brother.” Jaime shrugged, chuckling ever so slightly. Behind him the remaining Lannister troops – the ones who had no homes or loved ones to return to, numbering some fifty in all – came to a halt.

They had marched from The Twins back to the Westerlands where Jaime had discharged the remaining men under his command, bidding them to return to their farms and wives and children in peace. They had done their duty to the realm and House Lannister, having spend the last few years fighting and dying in various wars.

It was not fair for Jaime to force them to continue fighting for a woman who clearly valued nothing. Even if that woman was his sister and former lover. It still made his heart hurt to think of her – the beautiful and headstrong woman she once was – but the thing that had replaced her after the Sept's destruction was an abomination wearing her skin.

And so here they were, having marched into the Stormlands – avoiding the various patrols of Targaryen troops and Dothraki – to surrender personally at the gates of their ancestral home. “Well, are you ready?”

Bronn shrugged, shifting around on his horse. “Let's just hope we find the Khaleesi in a good mood.”

_You and me both._

Jaime urged his horse forward as they inched closer and closer to the gates. As they grew to within a hundred yards a group of riders galloped up to their column, demanding they declare their persons. Inhaling deeply he closed his eyes for the briefest of moments – imagining the sun-bleached steps of Casterly Rock – before he announced, “Ser Jaime of House Lannister. I have come to surrender to your Dragon Queen.”

* * *

 

The riders did not strike him down on the spot which was a good sign. The men looked to one another briefly before their leader rode up to within a few meters of Jaime's face. “It is you, Kingslayer. Fascinating.” the man spoke with a highborn accent, his face pock-marked full of scars. “I am Roland Storm, charged with the main defenses of Dragonstone itself.”

“Ah, the Bastard of Nightsong. I have heard of you.” Jaime inclined his head in greeting. “If you aren't killing me on the spot that must be good.”

Storm shrugged. “With the Queen and the Hand away at King's Landing it'll be up to the acting castellan to determine your fate.”

Jaime's heart sank. “King's Landing?” he whispered as Bronn looked towards him, concerned.

“Aye. The main fleet's gone to depose your precious sister from the Red Keep. A hundred thousand men – seasoned killers all.” he smirked, gesturing towards the gates with his head. “Come on, then. We'll send word to the castellan – he can decide if he wants to receive you or not.”

Jaime nodded, the muscles in his jaw clenching tight. _I suppose this was inevitable, then_. “Ready when you are, Storm."

* * *

“You are certain of this?” Varys asked, raising a very slender brow. From the Painted Table he tapped his fingers upon the edge of the map – the sound making up for the endless silence otherwise permeating the castle. With the main fleet – including the Queen and Tyrion – away the care of Dragonstone fell to him as acting castellan.

The soldier in front of him saluted. “Yes, ser. Fifty men including the Kingslayer at the gates. He says he is here to surrender. Ser Roland is not sure what you want done with them.”

This was a curious turn of events. “Let them inside. I will receive Ser Jaime here in the Chamber.”

The man nodded and marched out of the room, leaving Varys to his silence. He had never been a commander – let alone in charge of a major fortress – before and it was an interesting set of work. Of course, the Queen had given him a wide variety of advisers whom he made generous use of; they did most of the administrative tasks that had to be done day-to-day.

The truth was that he mainly busied himself with his little birds – or rather the little birds who continued to report information to him. Qyburn – Cersei's Hand and a disgraced maester – had apparently usurped control of most of his birds in Kings' Landing. Varys did not begrudge them – they were mostly children who worked for food or bits of coin – but it was a crucial loss of information for the Targaryen network.

None the less he still had a few dozen reporting to him from the capital and they painted a very dire picture – as Queen, Cersei had become even worse then Aerys Targaryen at the height of his madness. She blatantly used wildfire as a weapon; having it installed in many of the ships of her fleet, and as a method of control. One of his birds told a song of how she had barrels under homes in Flea Bottom and used threat of detonation as a way to stop rebellions from forming.

_It was cruel, even for her._ A knock at the door roused him from thought. “Yes?”

“Ser, the Kingslayer here.” came the reply.

“Send him in.” The door opened with a mournful creak as Jaime Lannister entered the room. Gone was the swaggering arrogance that Varys had known from the man – before him the son of Tywin almost appeared humble. Beside him was a familiar figure – Bronn, the sellsword that Tyrion had once employed.

* * *

“Ser Jaime. It has been far too long.” Varys smiled, waving to the chairs. “Please, take a seat. You as well, Ser Bronn.”

“Glad ya remember who I am,” the sellsword chuckled, plopping himself down to Varys's right. Jaime took the chair immediately beside Bronn.

“It has been too long, Varys.” Jaime sighed, placing his hands palms down on the table. “I'll cut right to the chase. Cersei is insane. We both know that – she's behaving even worse then the Mad King.”

“I am glad we can agree on that at least.” the eunuch smiled, chewing on the inside of his lip. “Though I am still curious as to why you have chosen this moment to surrender. Did something happen that my little birds didn't tell me?”

Jaime shook his head. “No. I just...realized that being a blind follower of a mad Queen is just as bad as being a blind follower of a mad King. No matter how you might feel about them.”

“And I realized all the promises of gold and castles and women won't ever come true with his sister at the fucking helm,” Bronn japed, shrugging.

“As Ser Roland informed you the Queen is currently besieging King's Landing – with Tyrion advising her, of course. Thus it falls to me to determine what should be done with you until their hopefully triumphant return.” Varys nodded towards the pair. “Whilst I certainly do not begrudge you for your deed twenty years ago, Lady Daenerys may not feel the same.”

“I'll tell her what I told you, what I told Brienne – even Tyrion. The truth.” Jaime sighed, casually unscrewing his golden hand and laying it on the table. “She can decide what she wants from me. Death? I'll accept it. Service? I'll bend the knee. Exile? I'll grab a ship and never return.”

“You have a very...cavalier..attitude towards death, Ser Jaime. This is not like the man I knew.” Varys added, studying him with a frown.

“After what's happened in the world thanks to me and people like me, well...you start to develop a sense of responsibility, I suppose.” he sighed, shaking his head softly, “I can't change the past, Varys. But I can hopefully do my bit to make a better future.”

“I'm just here because I have nothing better to do. That, and I miss the wee fucker – he and I had some good times together.” Bronn admitted, leaning back in his seat.

Varys pondered the situation. If he were a logical man he would order Jaime thrown into the dungeons to await the Queen's judgment – given what he did to King Aerys. But Varys also knew that Aerys was a lunatic – thus he could not be logical in this regard. He would need to be smart.

“The two of you will be given chambers of your own to await the Queen's return. While here on Dragonstone you will surrender your swords and agree not to go anywhere without an escort. Otherwise you will enjoy all the comforts of our humble stronghold.” he smiled, waving towards the door.

“And my men?” Jaime added, rising to his feet.

“They will be given lodgings as well as food, no need to worry.” Varys nodded.

“Varys? We may never have gotten along before, but for what it is worth...thank you.” Jaime smiled as they left the room, leaving Varys once again to his thoughts.

 

 


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Sansa march for battle.

Sansa wrapped her furs tighter about her neck as the wind blew, the cold currents biting through her dress like a knife. Even with the constant flickering of torches the night was dark and bitter cold. All around her the various lords and captains of the Northern host rode in silence, their expressions a mix of fear, anxiety and plain irritation at the weather.

Behind the hundred or so horses came the rest of the army, twenty thousand strong as they marched in orderly rows – the heavy cavalry and light horse on each side of the infantry – the clanging of the various equipment they carried the only sound audible in the night.

Mixed into the northern infantry were the four hundred or so Free Folk, their march being more of a ragged band then an ordered military action. But the men – lead by Tormund, who rode at the front of their parade – were tough, brave and fierce. They were the heartiest of their people having survived the Others at Hardhome and the Boltons at the Battle of the Bastards.

As they marched Sansa faintly heard the galloping of hooves off in the distance – this likely belonged to the Brotherhood Without Banners, the band of river-men – including the Hound – who had come North to fight against the Others. They served as scouts, rushing ahead to map out the positions of the horde that they faced. They had proven valuable since the army began its march three days ago – their destination being the Last Hearth which was currently besieged by the wights.

Behind the various free folk came the baggage train, carrying the tents, supplies, food and most importantly, weapons for the soldiers. It was heavily guarded by its own infantry columns and had regular cavalry riding alongside it.

Overhead Sansa also heard the screeching of Rhaegal; Jon having taken the beast into the air to clear them a path. The sheer number of wights at the Umber fortress was too much for the dragon to clear away but the numbers seemed to drop off rapidly when away from the remains of the Wall.

Her mind was filled with a mixture of hope and doubt. She hoped beyond anything that they would be victorious – Jon would kill the Night King and the army would drive the Others back into their frozen Land of Always Winter.

She doubted however that it was possible. Her cynical side – the side most affected by King's Landing and the words of the now-dead Petyr Baelish – told her that it was a stupid pipe dream, this thought of victory. That she should cut and run while she had the chance.

_Take Jon and the dragon and fly for Essos. Start a new life there._ But Sansa was of the North – and she would not flee. She did not run; be it from the dead or living. After everything she had endured – spending so long wanting to be anywhere other then Winterfell – she had just come home and was not about to let it fall to the Others.

_I am a Stark. I will fight._

Her mind turned to Jon; the King already rushing back into danger for the sake of his army. Davos had kept her abreast of the various reactions to Jon's parentage and their betrothal; many of the houses announced their approval and full support but a few others responded with skepticism and worse, hints of treason.

A raven from House Dustin had spoken of “Targaryen influenced rule” - that is the fear that Daenerys would rule through Jon, given their kinship. Another from House Flint had outright stated they would not recognize an “incest marriage”.

_I will set them straight when this is over._ She was not going to allow any stuffy, arrogant lord to come between her and Jon. They had wed already, unknown to everyone – and so their union was already complete and official.

It was an irony that Sansa had to suppress a laugh at; the two of them, sneaking around behind the backs of their banner-men and lying about their relationship. They had been in love; deep, unflinching love since before the exposure of Jon's parentage became known.

She remembered the nights they spent locked in each others arms, their secret rendezvous in the Lord's Chamber – the forbidden love they shared, something that would not be denied. Only to find out it was not forbidden at all – but a lie constructed by her father for twenty years.

_Even dear dead Petyr could not see this coming._

The death of Baelish represented a weight being removed from Sansa's shoulders that had threatened to force her on her knees. The loss of the Vale troops – while unfortunate – was also liberating as it took away his trump card.

No doubt the lords of the Eyrie would be upset at the death of their little lord's regent, but they would get over it. Somehow. And besides, she did not spare a thought for them – she had a war to win.

Sansa looked to her left and watched Ser Davos, his face grim and unflinching. The man had given up almost everything – his life in the South, his allegiance to the now-dead Stannis Baratheon – to help Jon and the North. _We'll need to give him a castle when this is said and done._

To her right rode Brienne, her faithful protector. She had been absent for some time due to making her way back from the failed attempt at treating with the Blackfish, but she had been by Sansa's side since her return. Her face was stoic as she rode, her hands tense and unmoving from the reins.

She knew Podrick was with her – he rode in the baggage train at her insistence – but Sansa wondered what she feared. It was likely she was afraid of the same things every man and woman in the North was; the loss of their home, families and very lives to the Long Night.

Every lord and lady, soldier and farmer, boy and girl knew that this army, this last-ditch effort by the King in the North was the only hope of surviving the winter. If they were victorious then there would be celebrations and joy all across the land.

If they failed, there would be no time to mourn as the Others would come for them – not even in the night, but in the brazen sight of day. But this did not even just concern the North but rather the whole of Westeros. The last Long Night eight thousand years ago had consumed nearly the whole continent before it was stopped.

Would this Long Night finish what the first one began?

_Not on my watch._

* * *

The air was even colder on Rhaegal's back then it was down with the army. Yet Jon pressed on, bringing his dragon down to the next wave of wights, who'd gathered outside a ruined holdfast. They roared and snarled up at him but were unable to do anything else – they could only use swords and axes, and barely at that.

“Dracarys!” he whispered as a gout of flame crashed into the ruins, sending fire scattering about. The snarling cries of the dead as they were consumed by the flame was his answer and Jon brought Rhaegal back up into the clouds.

He had been on dragon duty since the army began its march three days prior, but no matter how much he tired – often times falling asleep mid flight only to be startled awake by his dragon's roar – he knew that giving up was not an option.

The twenty thousand strong host was the last of the North's strength. If it were to fail then there would be no real hope of success. Even with three dragons or three hundred, the Others were immune to flame of any kind.

Sure, there was still the Night's Watch – both Eastwatch By-The-Sea and the Shadow Tower were intact and garrisoned by the remaining black brothers – but what could three hundred tired criminals, rapists and other malcontents do against an endless army?

With Daenerys having departed to fight her own battle Jon knew that it was on him – and Rhaegal – to help carry the day. His mind swam with strategy; though there was very little in the way of planning one could do against the Others. They did not sleep, eat, rest or tire – they simply sent their screaming, snarling hordes at an enemy until they were dead.

He had done what he could to ensure the soldiers of the Northern army were armed – rather excessively – with bows and arrows. Once set alight they would be able to rain a fiery permanent death upon the wights. Thanks to his warnings House Manderly had also produced several hundred barrels of pitch, which would be invaluable in clearing the ranks.

His plan was simple – they needed to do enough damage to the wights to bring the Night King out onto the field. If the Others could be provoked enough Jon could face it in a battle of steel and ice, instead of a one-sided contest like at the Wall. Clearing the siege at the Last Hearth would be a good start; from there they could evacuate what small-folk remained and use it as a beachhead to strike into the Gift.

Jon leaned down and kissed Rhaegal's scaly skin, the rough nature of the beast causing his lips to chap. “It'll be on us, my friend.,” he whispered into the neck, “on us to save the day. Then you can go back to your mother.”

That earned him an almost gentle roar as he brought the beast down from the clouds, his eyes catching sight of another large group of wights near a frozen stream. As Rhaegal brought death upon them from above Jon's mind turned to Sansa. His Queen – his wife, and his strength.

The thought of her smiling face, jubilant in victory drove him on despite the cold and hunger and fatigue. He was lying when he would tell the Northern lords he fought for them. For Winterfell, even for Westeros as a whole. Of course they concerned him and were a priority for his continuing leadership – but it was Sansa that drove and inspired him.

_For you my love, I would fight for a thousand lifetimes._

 

 


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Euron Greyjoy reflects on his twisted life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end of Part Three is upon us! Part Four will be coming soon to an archive near you! I promise. :)

From the highest point of the Citadel, Archmaester's Overlook Euron enjoyed the sights and sounds of his new city. His prize.

The streets below – those not reduced to flaming wreckage from Viserion's attacks or looted into abandonment by the accompanying Lannister or Tarly forces – were alive with activity as traders, workers and folk of all types tried to proceed with a semblance of normalcy in their lives. They bought and sold and haggled freely, the coin and goods flowing with every transaction. The orderly and neat rows of homes were full of the sounds of laughing children or weeping widows. It made him feel a certain pride in what he had been able to do in only a short time.

Of course there were always holdouts. The Hightower and the surrounding area was particularly stubborn; not only did a large garrison of well-trained and elite Hightower soldiers stand in the way, Lord Leyton had refused all offers Euron had made for him to surrender. He'd even been generous and offered to allow the man to leave Oldtown with his riches intact – as if he needed any more useless gold or gems. But the lord of Oldtown was not going to abandon his seat that easily.

 _I would rather die then bow to an ironborn such as you,_ he had told Euron. Ah well, some men were not as fickle or craven as others. Still, it was men like Lord Leyton that made life interesting – much unlike the rest of the idiot 'lords' who now bowed to Cersei. His dear beloved had sent an army of Lannister and Tarly troops to aid in 'securing' the city – a glorified looting operation, more like – and now he watched as they carted wagon-loads of goods away back to Casterly Rock and Horn Hill.

“M'lord,” A voice interrupted Euron's reverie. Turning his head he looked to the voice and found Lucas Codd, one of his most loyal and devout captains. The Codds were a rather sullen and lowborn bunch, being the sons of thralls and salt wives – but they were useful and fanatical servants, given that Euron cared little for birth status.

* * *

 

 _Though all Men Do Despise Us_ was their house's slogan; it was one that the King wished he could use for himself. Lucas was typical of most Codds – round and ugly. His belly stretched his armor tightly over his body and his pock-marked face was riddled with zits and other unsavory 'features'. Despite this he was one of the best captains of Euron's fleets.

“Lucas, you know I wont to be interrupted during my pondering.” Euron smirked, turning his full attention towards the man. _A trait from Father, to be sure_. Quellon Greyjoy had always enjoyed sitting by the seas or on one of the balconies of Pyke with a book in his hand, listening to the seas and sounds of the Drowned God as he put it. It was the only thing that Euron had inherited from his weak-willed and stupid sire.

“Of course, m'lord.” the man nodded, wiping some sweat from his brow, “but some news for you that couldn't wait. The troops sent from King's Landing are on their way out with the goods. Should we let'em?”

 _Why would I care about stupid shit as that?_ “Yes, yes – let them run away with their treasures.” he shrugged. Euron longed to begin his exploration of the vast stores of the Citadel's libraries – especially the most secure sections where it was said fragments of ancient Valyrian texts were held. Dealing with matters like this was as boring as it was tiresome.

“Another thing. Got a bird from King's Landing.” Codd produced a scroll from his sleeve. “Says the city is under attack from the Targaryen girl. Queen's requesting you bring the dragon right away and give 'er some aid.”

 _Now that was interesting._ “Oh, really? My poor beloved wife. What will she do?” he laughed mightily, rolling his shoulders as he did so. _Seems that Daenerys couldn't wait to have the city – my poor, sweet, stupid Cersei._

“Are ya gonna leave, sir? We can handle things 'ere.” Lucas looked at him as though he were some kind of creature, his eyes glossing over rather stupidly.

“Let me think about that Lucas....no. I am not going to gallivant – as my dear nephew would say – back to the Queen and save her. She made her bed, it is time to lie in it.” Euron shook his head, an almost pitying expression coming over his face. Since he had made their alliance the pair had spent as much time trying to outwit the other as possible.

It was totally understandable from Cersei's part; she viewed Euron as a hindrance to her own power, having sacrificed almost her entire family to get what she wanted. _I would hate me too_ , he mused. Of course his dear betrothed was not as smart as she thought she was – at least when it came to the Crow's Eye.

Euron knew of her reliance on the stores of wildfire that had been placed under King's Landing by the late Aerys Targaryen. She had used some of said store to blow up the Sept of Baelor – which he found hilariously impressive, to her credit. She had prattled on endlessly about how wildfire would be the salvation by which she held her throne.

 _And she would be right if not for my existence._ Euron knew of those stores as well – it had been easy to bribe some of the “little birds”, street orphans who worked for the greybeard Qyburn to show him where they were. A few gold pieces and they were eating out of his hand.

* * *

 _A little payback for Dragonstone –_ where Cersei had 'gifted' him with vast stores of wildfire only for most of it to be little more then water dyed green. An amusing gesture on her part; she had wanted him to die horribly throwing himself against the fortress. So, Euron had done the same to her – only with the stores in King's Landing.

Of course he did leave some of the store intact – the ones under the Red Keep, for instance. But all of the rest had been changed out and replaced. He'd missed some, sure, but the major areas had been looted clean.

 _I have Oldtown. Why would I need you anymore?_ “Anything else?”

“Nope. Want us to keep th' blockade?” Codd drawled, coughing an ungodly green phlegm up from his throat.

“For now, Lucas. For now.” Euron waved his hand, lazily dismissing him. As Codd waddled away he returned to his ministrations. The secrets of Valyria were here somewhere – and if anyone could unlock them it would be him. He had been the first to sail to the smoldering ruins and live – if you didn't count the Stone Men who lived on the very edge of the peninsula.

Just as he had been able to master the dragon horn he would master the other secrets he'd brought back with him. The secrets that would drive lesser men mad, but a man like Euron Greyjoy was no ordinary lesser man. Licking his lips hungrily he snickered, his mind full of delicious possibilities.

Some called him mad. They said he was not of the right mind to lead the ironborn. Perhaps they were right – but Euron would not indulge them. His people were a sea-people, mighty and fearsome. Their main weakness was their piety; devotion to the Drowned God was utter and absolute, even among his most loyal of followers.

Euron had to play the game and recite the prayers, and he did – at least in public. When the Iron Islands was watching he was a loyal servant of the God, just as they were. In private, well...his mind was his own, and no Drowned God or Seven Gods or Old Gods or any kind of “god” would claim him. The Valyrians of old knew this; for five thousand years they had control over most of the known world. And did they rely on gods? On prayer?

Euron knew otherwise. They relied on their secrets. Just as he would – all in due time.

_Perhaps I should pay my dear wife one last visit._

 

 


End file.
